The Lost Expert, page 17
It occurred to him that out in the open like this he was visible from just about anywhere — the rooms of the many hotels and condos overlooking the water, the higher points of the park’s grassy knoll. Little Scarface could still be looking for him. Chris picked up his pace. His throat was dry, and his leg muscles felt oddly twisted. Up ahead was a path away from the water that seemed to loop back to the small downtown and the hotel complex. He hurried toward it.
“MR. HOLMES. OVER HERE!”
The low summons issued from under a filthy Winnipeg Jets cap. It was Frankie the set builder. Frankie wore the baseball cap on stringy, greasy hair draped over the shoulders of a faded jean jacket. He was with three other similarly dressed-down people, members of The Lost Expert crew.
“How ya doin’, Mr. H.?” Frankie asked.
“I’m good, thanks,” Chris answered warily. “How are you all doing?” He kept his voice and his gaze low.
“We’re great,” Frankie said so loudly that Chris felt compelled to take a step back. “Day off, so here wese all are out on the town. Not really my scene, but ya know what they say — when in Rome. It was Jen here’s idea to come over here, she’s got a buncha coupons, eh? For the buffet and free drinks.”
“Frankie,” Jen said warningly. “Mr. Holmes doesn’t want to hear about our coupons.”
Not exactly sure what they were talking about, Chris looked around. Next block over was the complex where he was staying. On the broad sidewalk in front of him were small groups of people who looked quite different from the crew — businesspeople released from their conferences and younger tourist couples sporting halter tops, short skirts, chinos, and polos. The building they were entering and exiting was as unprepossessing as the resort where they were staying and might even have been part of it. Lakeview Casino, Chris read.
“Jen, Mr. H is cool, he knows the score, dontcha, Mr. H?”
Jen cast Frankie a murderous glance. The rest of the group were silent, following the proceedings, clearly uneasy to be in quite such proximity to the star of the show.
“Cool it, Frankie,” Jen said warningly. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes,” she said, darting him an apologetic look.
“Say, Mr. H.,” Frankie continued. “You heading in? You wanna join up for a drink?”
“Frankie —” Jen hissed.
“Oh, come on, Jennifer! That old busybody had it coming! ‘Con-ti-nuuuu-ity,’” Frankie mimicked.
Frankie’s eyes were bloodshot and wet, giving him the look of a decrepit dog, wounded yet insolent. A ripple of tension moved through the group. Was Frankie right? Did she have it coming?
Before Chris could make up his mind to stay or flee, two people approached from the other direction: a middle-aged couple, the woman, heavyset and heavily made-up, already pulling out her phone.
“Are you Thomson Holmes?” she yelled. Chris didn’t respond. “Oh, my goodness, Charles, it is, it is Thomson Holmes! Can we get a picture? Thomson, can we get a picture?”
Suddenly, the woman was knocked aside. A tall, bearded man with an impressive gut and a headset smiled at Chris. “Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. This way, sir.” The man made a right-this-way gesture, and Chris gratefully stepped forward. Somewhere behind him, he heard the click of a camera. He quickened his pace. “Thomson! Thomson!”
Script 11
INT. MEETING ROOM IN THE PALM RESORT HOTEL AND CASINO — AFTERNOON
The room is long and thin, dominated by a cherrywood table polished to a high shine. The table is topped by leather blotters, each one flanked by a fountain pen and writing pad. Six people, FOUR MEN and TWO WOMEN, all dressed in formal business attire, are clustered around one end of the table, gazing intently at THE LOST EXPERT, who sits uncomfortably in a stiff chair, his dirty boots planted on the art deco black-and-white-patterned ceramic floor. At the far end of the table is a large topographical map of Sand City and the surrounding desert plains.
JEFF MARSHALL,
ASSISTANT TO THE PRESIDENT
Great, we’re all here now. Let me make the introductions. Over here is Vince Callagio, president of Security and Customer Safety.
He gestures to a burly man in his fifties, dressed in a suit, vest, and bow tie. Then to a DARK-HAIRED WOMAN in her early forties in a red dress.
JEFF MARSHALL (CONT’D)
This is Evelyn Munroe, ladies’ hotel detective. This is Lester Sullivan and David Amber, who also help out around here. Of course, you’ve already met our president, Mackenzie McDonald.
MACKENZIE MCDONALD
Call me Mac!
(Appreciative chuckles from everyone at the table.)
VINCE CALLAGIO
My team has prepared a complete report on the incident. Now, on the night in question Duchess Laura was —
THE LOST EXPERT
I’ll need to see her room.
Evelyn and Vince glance at each other.
EVELYN MUNROE
That’s not a problem.
LESTER SULLIVAN
Of course, you’ll understand that the duchess sometimes engaged in certain activities that, while not necessarily condoned by the hotel, but within the privacy of her suite, you see —
MACKENZIE MCDONALD
(sharply)
I’ve been assured he understands that.
The Lost Expert stands up and walks to the map. He stares at the map while the others watch him silently. With one long finger he traces a path only he can see.
THE LOST EXPERT
After I see her room, I’ll be leaving immediately.
JEFF MARSHALL
Leaving?
THE LOST EXPERT
(stabbing a point in the map)
Here. She’s somewhere here.
VINCE CALLAGIO
(incredulous)
In the Dead Heights Basin? How can you know that?
THE LOST EXPERT
As I said, before I go, I’ll need to see her room. As well as the hotel ledgers for the last week.
MACKENZIE MCDONALD
(standing up)
Whatever he needs, people!
INT. ELEVATOR
EVELYN MUNROE, hotel detective, appraises THE LOST EXPERT thoughtfully. We can see that despite her youthful appearance and voluptuous beauty, her eyes hold a sharp wariness. She nods to the young man in the bellhop uniform working the levers of the glass elevator.
EVELYN MUNROE
The duchess was staying in our penthouse apartment on the fifteenth floor. We’ll arrange a suite for you on the same floor.
THE LOST EXPERT
That won’t be necessary. I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.
EVELYN MUNROE
Are you sure that’s wise? It’s after three. It will be getting dark in a few hours.
THE LOST EXPERT
(stepping out of the elevator)
It’s always getting dark.
INT. DUCHESS LAURA’S SUITE
THE LOST EXPERT stands in the middle of the suite, his eyes closed. EVELYN MUNROE eyes him warily, shifting on her high heels.
THE LOST EXPERT
Tell me again.
EVELYN MUNROE
(trying not to show her impatience)
As I’ve said, since arriving, the duchess mainly spent her time in the suite. She made several calls for lemons and ice. She and the duke are currently estranged. They’ve only been married sixteen months. They have an infant daughter. The duchess was drinking gin. We also found evidence of non-prescribed stimulants.
The Lost Expert scans the room, eyes falling on the leather blotter of the desk, which is dusted with white powder.
THE LOST EXPERT
Cocaine.
EVELYN MUNROE
We found a considerable supply. Just after 1:00 a.m. she proceeded to the casino floor. After around forty-five minutes she requested a bottle of champagne. She drank several glasses. Her mood, which was tense at first, gradually became gayer. At the lobby bar, the duchess ordered another glass of champagne. She walked to the terrace area, drained her drink, then proceeded through the gate into the cactus garden. The cactus garden borders the desert and is normally locked from sunset to sunrise. We don’t permit guests in the garden after dark. However, in this instance, the gate was open. We are looking into the matter of how the gate could have been unsecured at that time. The Duchess entered the cactus garden unimpeded. The cactus garden borders several hundred miles of desert landscape. There are two short trails one can follow from the garden. They are marked, but not for night hiking since the garden is locked and secured at sunset as part of our regular protocol. We found her shoes — bespoke Italian leather high heels — at the start of the western trail, which is 2.2 miles long. There are tracks from her bare feet at the beginning of the trail, but the wind erases them about one quarter of a mile in. She hasn’t been seen since she left the cactus garden at roughly 2:45 a.m. the night before last.
THE LOST EXPERT
(opening his eyes)
Thank you.
The Lost Expert surveys the messy room, taking in the brassiere thrown over the back of a chair, dirty glasses and room service dishes, a shimmering dress dumped in a corner. There are books and pamphlets heaped up on the coffee table in front of the couch. Titles include: Laugh and Live by Douglas Fairbanks, The Richest Man in Babylon by George S. Clason, and The Rising Tide of Color Against White World-Supremacy by Lothrop Stoddard.
THE LOST EXPERT
How many days in advance did the duchess make her reservations?
EVELYN MUNROE
The duchess arrived with no reservation.
THE LOST EXPERT
(nodding as if he expected that answer)
I’ll look at the ledgers now.
Evelyn Munroe nods, prepares to leave.
THE LOST EXPERT
Oh, one more thing if you will.
The Lost Expert brings out the drawing of Beaoman.
THE LOST EXPERT
Have you ever seen a man who looks
like this?
EVELYN MUNROE
(seeming flustered for the first time)
Why, yes, I believe he’s been a regular over the last month or so. What about him?
EXT. THE DESERT — NIGHT
Sand City glows in the near distance, a giant orb of pulsing light. THE LOST EXPERT wears a small rucksack. He walks slowly away from the glowing star of the city, moving toward the dark hills and dunes in the distance. The moon hangs over him. The sands are deep and soft, sifted by the relentless winds. The Lost Expert plods forward, slowly and steadily. The clouds shift and shadows lengthen. Suddenly, the Lost Expert stops. He stoops, picks something up, brushes sand off the object. It is a gold two-hundred-dollar chip.
Section 12
“RIGHT THIS WAY, SIR.”
The bouncer led Chris through a large, somewhat tired room about a quarter full of people feeding coins into slot machines. Only a few glanced up from their relentless pursuit. Chris had never been in a casino. He looked around curiously, not paying attention to where they were headed.
At the far end of the room, they came to an elevator marked private, which the bouncer accessed by flashing a key card.
“After you, sir.”
The elevator opened to a small foyer lit in blue. A heavily made-up woman in a tight black dress rushed up to Chris and, smile shining, effusively welcomed him. He wasn’t sure what he was being welcomed to, but she didn’t seem bothered by his hesitating silence. “Right this way, Mr. Holmes,” she said knowingly. He followed her through another opening framed by dim blueish light then down a dark hallway and into a quiet lounge, thick with cigar smoke. There, four people, three men and a woman, their faces mostly in shadow, were playing cards, chips piled up by their elbows. An unsmiling middle-aged lady wearing a paisley vest and a green visor spoke softly. “Place your bets, please.” There was a bar, staffed by another young woman in a tight black dress, and there was another bouncer here too, dressed in a suit and tie and earpiece, standing silently in a corner with his arms crossed.
Did they think he was here to play?
He went to speak but stopped himself. Thomson Holmes probably did. He was a probably an aficionado. Cigars, poker, cars, women.
Thankfully, they led him past the game and into an alcove leading to another door.
“Mr. Berinstain is already waiting for you, Mr. Holmes,” the hostess said happily. “He arrived early.”
The hostess opened the door. Reflexively, Chris stepped in.
The room overlooked the water. He found himself momentarily blinded by its pretty brightness. Chris blinked a few times and then saw that, as promised, a man — a Mr. Berinstain — was there, sitting calmly with his hands folded on the pale, gleaming wooden conference table. He had a flat face with acne scarring on the cheeks, a weak chin that stretched into a thin neck, and a sunken chest ending in a belly bulge barely camouflaged by a golf shirt.
“Have a seat, Thomson.”
He knows. Chris felt the heat on his face. His whole body was suddenly heavy. He dropped into a waiting chair. Berinstain. A name he’d heard, or seen, a few times. Maybe Alison had mentioned him? Someone important. His lawyer? His manager? The door to the room had closed behind him. They were alone.
Berinstain considered him with a watery, inscrutable gaze. “Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. I just wanted to make sure that we could talk.” He slid an envelope over the smooth table toward Chris. “Here,” he said. Puzzled, barely suppressing the urge to bolt, Chris peeked into the envelope. It was full of American hundred-dollar bills.
“Spending money,” Berinstain said. Then, clearing his throat, he opened the dossier in front of him. “Two and a half million dollars in cash and assets have been transferred from Holmes’s holdings and other elements of the estate over the last month,” he drily informed Chris. “Within hours of the transfer,” Berinstain continued, “the accounts disappeared, their contents most likely liquefied into cash at considerable loss to their owner. This transfer represented the bulk of Thomson Holmes’s liquidity. This means,” Berinstain continued with all the inflection of a bored algebra teacher, “that for all intents and purposes, Thomson Holmes’s accessible accounts are empty. In fact, Thomson Holmes is actually four million dollars in the hole.” Berinstain closed the folder and crossed his arms over it.
Chris was trying to process this information. Did Berinstain think he’d taken the money?
“Take a moment,” Berinstain said. “Have a drink of water.”
He watched, expressionless, as Chris gulped from the glass in front of him.
“Thomson? Do you wish to notify the police of the unusual transfer of assets?”
The way Berinstain stared at Chris reminded him of the eyes in the buck head Krunk’s uncle had mounted on the wall of his cabin. “Won it in a bet,” he’d muttered, refusing to elaborate. The boys had imagined those blank eyes, always open, were spying on them, watching them as they slept huddled together on the floor in their tangle of sleeping bags. Resisting the resurgent urge to make a run for it, Chris willed himself to stare back at Berinstain. He knows. Clearly, he knows. But he doesn’t care.
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Chris heard himself say.
Berinstain nodded in agreement. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued, the faintest hint of a smile now playing on his thin lips. “I am not altogether hostile to the opportunities this unique situation suggests. As such, I agree that we should keep the involvement of outside parties to a minimum.”
“To a minimum,” Chris heard himself repeat. His voice was level, responding to Berinstain’s quiet monotone. But suddenly he wanted to punch him, this grey-faced money man. He doesn’t even care.
“Do we agree, then, that for all intents and purposes of our business arrangement,” Berinstain said pointedly, “the man sitting in front of me is Thomson Holmes?”
Chris jumped to his feet. Berinstain didn’t flinch. Feeling ridiculous, Chris made a show of striding to the window and looking out over the river and up to the hills. Where was he? Out there. Out there somewhere.
“How did you know?”
“The DeLorean,” Berinstain said. “Reed told me you were so into your role that you could not even remember whether or not you still owned the DeLorean.”
“The DeLorean.”
“Other assets,” Berinstain said, reopening his manila file, “including the Hollywood Hills home, the vacation property, and the yacht, have been put up for sale at below market prices. The sales were initiated from a numbered corporation that led to a bank operating on charter issued by the Cayman Islands.” Several vehicle sales had already gone through. “However,” Berinstain droned, “it would be possible to stop the bulk of these sales or allow them to proceed in a more conventional manner to ensure that the proceeds remain in your legitimate, accessible accounts. Either way, it would be advisable to reset all security protocols including completely disabling all online access, changing all credit cards and bank account numbers, and requiring double signatures for all significant transactions. Do you agree to this?” Berinstain swept his gaze from the papers to Chris.
“The house,” Chris said. “I want to keep it.”
Berinstain raised his thin, grey eyebrows. He made a faint, dismissive gesture. “We’ll see what can be arranged.”
