Lucky Chapter 13

Hargrove jumped to his feet before he realized that his legs wouldn’t support him and crumpled to the floor. As he pulled himself painfully upright, he overheard Penny explaining to Moxie that no, she was not a producer and did not have time to read his script.

Hargrove serpentined down the hall in the wake of his rescuer. At least, that’s what he told himself the shambling lurch was. He forced his mind to focus on the task at hand. There was always time later for stitches and CAT scans. Right now, it was up to them to rescue the others. TOKE was crushed, HEMP was unraveling and Le Scorpion was poised to strike. But who was the target?

With only the sound of Moxie’s maddened scribbling the unlikely trio crept quietly down the hallway. The dampness, bare concrete floor and constant generator hum led Hargrove to surmise that they were in the basement of the BFG headquarters. In the interest of stealth he kept his astute observation to himself. They took the stairs to the first floor. Bonavista peered out and waved them into an empty meeting room.

“I thank you for my release from the imperialist shackles of ...” Hargrove broke off at his rescuer’s look of distaste. “Thanks for springing me,” he amended.

For the first time he examined his new suspect (they all were suspects). Her short, spiky red hair stuck out in all directions. A faint scar ran beneath one green eye toward the corner of her mouth. She had the lithe look of a sprinter. A coiled sense of menace wafted off her along with an exotic scent he recalled but could not place

“Just who the heck are you?” he demanded. His exasperation with the labyrinthine case developments had reached its peak. “And don’t tell me you’re the triple agent paramour competitor covert operative here to put down the HEMP insurrection and foil the assassination attempts of Le Scorpion.”

“You really are good,” Bonavista observed. “I had heard the rumors of your extraordinary powers of …” She broke off as Hargrove waved off the praise. Unaccustomed as he was to avoiding others lauding his incomparable skills in detection and disguise, the case had become too convoluted even for one of his prowess. If only there were a way to simplify the cast of thousands in this epic tale of deceit, deviousness and double-dealing.

A stifled cough was heard from the hallway. Bonavista cracked the door open carefully and looked out. The trench coat, fedora and cloud of smoke were ample evidence of the source of the cough.

Graves, she mouthed at Hargrove. The Marxist Detective, shook off the ennui caused by the Hollywood glitterati and opulent surroundings. Here at least was a chance to get some answers. He crouched, ready to spring. Like a cat, Bonavista pounced on Graves, clapped a silencing hand over his mouth and dragged him into the room. Hargrove, still crouched, retied his shoe. By the time he stood up, Bonavista had Graves secured to a chair with a strip of tape over his mouth. The enigmatic gunman struggled, but to no avail.

“Moxie, watch the door,” commanded Hargrove. “I don’t want any interruptions.” The Beefeater/tour guide/screen writer regretfully slid his script inside his shredded uniform and went to the door.

Bonavista slipped a Spyderco Endura from a hidden location and snapped it open. The point drew a pearl of blood from Graves’ throat. She pulled off the tape stifling her prisoner.

“Tell us what we want to know and we’ll let you live,” began Hargrove. His tried and true methods of interrogation borne of painful empirical experience always offered hope to the captive. By offering surcease to the suspect the interrogator forms a bond with the subject which can be exploited to draw information from the most truculent of prisoners.

“I’ll die before I tell you anything,” rasped Graves. “Others have tried to break me and failed. Others tougher than you amateurs,” he growled. “Go ahead, beat my teeth out, then kick me in the stomach for mumbling.”[1]

Hargrove nodded his acceptance of the expected reply. Now it was time to move carefully to the next phase in which …

“So, you think you’re tough. I believe you,” said Bonavista as she drew the large blade across Graves throat. She stepped away from the geysering gunman leaving Hargrove to bear the full brunt of the crimson flow.

The detective stood stunned as blood sprayed the front of his disheveled suit. Bonavista had not only killed a defenseless man, she had destroyed his chance to find out what Graves’ connection was to the Wapkaplets. She had also ruined his opportunity to repay Graves for his pistol butt assaults. Bonavista’s capacity for violence was … alluring.

Wiping off his suit as best as possible, he approached the corpse. He observed that despite the exsanguination, Graves did not look much grayer than he had in life. Hargrove quickly searched the man’s pockets. He found a wallet with several hundred dollar bills but no credit cards or ID, a crumpled coupon for a free Stomach Lining Grand Slam Breakfast from “Hollywood Boulevard Tripe”, a security pass card, a pistol, two extra clips, a lighter and 14 packs of cigarettes.

Hargrove pocketed the cash (for the Children’s Make a Collectivist Wish Foundation) and the coupon (for Marty). He proffered the security card to Bonavista. “Do you know what to do with this?” he asked.

“Follow me. We’re going to do some remote surveillance.” Hargrove and Moxie trailed Bonavista as she slipped silently along the corridor. They reached a metal door with a magnetic card reader. Hargrove swiped the card. The lock clicked and they darted inside. Bonavista moved quickly to a complex console and expertly manipulated the controls. “From here we can see almost every inch of the studio,” she announced. Let’s see where everyone is hiding.” Hargrove and Moxie crowded in behind her to peer at the bank of security monitors. Hargrove was acutely aware of her. His nostrils flared as he breathed in her scent. He felt the overwhelming desire to touch her pale skin.

“Look at that,” she exclaimed pointing at a screen and rousing Hargrove from his sensory reverie. He hastily adjusted his waistband and leaned forward to examine what she had discovered.

Back in their stronghold, also known as Conference Room 3, the distressed Heirs to Executives in Motion Pictures milled about in the wake of Hargrove’s startling announcement.

“Offant will definitely not greenlight my next project,” lamented Harry Stiles.

“Shut up all of you,” commanded Junior. “Hoi, I want you to find Gosling and assess his strength. Be back here in 20 minutes.” The massive Feng Shui Detective whirled and was gone. Everyone in the room silently admired the balanced poise of the functionary’s exit.

“We sit tight and see if that bumbler Hargrove was telling the truth. Until Hoi gets back, no one leaves.”

A rumble shook the room. “Earthquake!” chorused the Scott twins. Everyone shot to their feet and frantically scanned the cavernous office for shelter.

“Pardon me,” apologized Shirley primly from across the room. Rockefeller tutted and gently patted the back of her hand. A noisome, acrid stench began to fill the room.

“Gosling’s going to gas us all!” shouted Haughtenburg in a panicked voice. He lapsed into a fit of coughing.

“OK,” conceded Junior pressing a handkerchief to his face. “You two can leave,” he said gesturing at the captain and her escort. Shirley and Rockefeller rose gracefully and strode elegantly toward the door. A swampy sewer smell lingered briefly in the room and then gradually dissipated. Junior pressed an intercom button on his desk. “Petunia,” directed Junior. “Two of our guests are leaving my office. Follow them. Don’t let them leave the building.”

“My pleasure,” replied the immense security guard from her post at the end of the hall. She dropped her copy of Playboy on the desk stood and cracked her knuckles. A broad smile spread over her face. Her orders gave her the excuse to follow her own buxom objective.

Rockefeller escorted Shirley through the broad, empty hallways. They strolled to a lounge area offering a panoramic nighttime view of Hollywood. “My dear,” he said, “we must form a partnership. With your aviation acumen, and international demand for my detective services, we can travel the globe solving mysteries and reaping huge financial rewards.

“I believe you have a partner,” she purred molding her curvaceous body to his.

They both started as Petunia rounded the corner. “My, my, looks like someone is muscling in on my territory,” she began.

“See here,” retorted Rockefeller, “We’re having a private moment and I have no intent…” His irate rejoinder was cut shot as Petunia batted him aside like a fly. He hit the wall, collapsing the dry wall and slid to the floor unconscious.

“Now it’s time for us to get better acquainted, darling,” Petunia intoned as she advanced on the cowering pilot. “Ever since I saw you in the guardhouse all slippery, covered in red slime, I’ve had very special plans for you.”

“Leave me alone!” shouted Shirley as she backed away as far as the wall would allow. Pertunia’s massive hand clamped around her wrists, holding them above her head. Her other hand slowly encircled her thrashing prey.

“Let’s start off with a hug,” she said as she squeezed the pilot between the immobile wall and the unyielding surface of her own bulk. She smiled as Shirley emitted a groan of pain and despair. Her smile quickly turned to a look of panic as the pilot continued to emit something other than a groan. A sulphurous cloud of trench-rot air erupted from between Shirley’s red, pouting lips. Petunia shook her head fiercely to fend off the noxious cloud but there was no escape. Sweat broke out on the pilot’s creamy smooth skin as she struggled valiantly against her captor. The acrid stink twined sickeningly through the cloud that surrounded Petunia’s head. The unholy combination made her eyes water and skin burn. She released Shirley and backed of until she was pressed against the huge window.

Shirley saw her opening and attacked. “What’s the matter?” she asked as she sashayed toward the stricken security guard. “Don’t you like me anymore?”

“Don’t you find me attractive anymore?” asked Shirley coquettishly. “Don’t you like my hair?” she taunted as she tossed her head. A flurry of dead scalp skin flakes drifted in the guard’s direction. Petunia shrieked and batted furiously at the air. “Don’t you like these?” she inquired innocently as she cupped her ample bosom and bent forward. The shift in gravity forced a glistening streamer of mucus from her delicate, pink left nostril. With a practiced flip she wiped it away and flung it in Petunia’s direction where it smacked the window next to her face with the sound of a wet fish hitting concrete. The slimy mass drooled slowly down the glass surface. Petunia cowered.

“Or maybe you prefer this. She turned her back. Petunia sensed what was coming but was powerless to escape. She screamed as the as the gaseous deluge from the beautifully rounded posterior of her erstwhile victim whipped past her like a jet fighter’s air wash.

She began gasping for breath. “Must get air! Air!” she moaned, as she wiped frantically at her eyes and nose. With a final scream she turned and with a monumental lunge, threw herself at the window. Her head shattered a hole in the glass. She had a moment of fresh California smog before her forward momentum drove her neck against the jagged glass edge of the broken window. Her head, bearing a smile of profound relief continued its path down to the parking lot below. The rest of her body collapsed in a lifeless heap inside the window.

“Honey are you OK?” she asked as she wrapped herself around him. The Capitalist Detective smiled at her concerned expression.

“Of course I am fine, my dear,” he replied. “Perhaps we should return to see what our HEMP friends are up to.” He again took her arm and somewhat stiffly escorted her back toward Conference Room 3.

Hargrove, Bonavista and Moxie watched as Hoi glided along the corridor. Using the console they followed his every perfectly balanced move through the complex.

Hargrove’s finely-tuned detective’s mind tackled the riddle. Where would Hoi be headed indeed? Hoi was the HEMP’s running dog lackey yet he would have to do something, that according to his twisted psyche at least, was in harmony with his past actions.

“Look, I told you I’m not a producer, and I’m not going to read your damn script,” spat Bonavista.

“We’re very busy, right now, so if you could just continue your heretical (notthatthereisagod) scribbling in silence, we’d appreciate it,” added Hargrove.

Bonavista turned from the monitors and began to pace the room, rubbing her temples. “If we can head him off, we can pump him for information. I need to find HEMP and Le Scorpion.”

Inwardly Hargrove quailed at the thought of another encounter with the indomitable Feng Shui Detective. “Absolutely,” he blustered. “Why we’ll make sure he tells us ... "

“He’s looking for Offant,” blurted the would-be screen writer. “The script don’t sing otherwise. The …”

“Preposterous,” declared Hargrove. He briefly pondered Hoi’s counter-revolutionary devotion to order. The pandering corporate lapdog … “Doesn’t fit the milieu at all,” he concluded.

“It’s gotta be. It don’t have flow otherwise. The narrative construct is compromised. Think motivation man, motivation.”

“I supposed it is possible given the narrative … whatever. What do you think Bonavista?” he asked turning to face her. She was gone. Hargrove whirled back to the monitors in time to see her lithe figure disappearing around a corner.

“By Stalin’s heart-shaped mole! I’ve lost her,” exploded Hargrove as he rounded on Moxie. “Not only was she a suspect, she was probably our best chance of getting out of here alive.” He frantically cycled through the monitor sequence looking for a sign of the beautiful, enigmatic killer. Suddenly he stopped, arrested by the image on the camera in front of him.

The HEMP consortium had dissolved into several small groups and individuals who milled about the room. Most clutched guns, some of which wavered about menacing others in the room. Shirley and Rockefeller were nowhere to be seen but Marty was wisely crouching behind the promotional cutout for Freddy’s Chainsaw Summer Camp Slaughter IV. He seemed mesmerized by the dripping axe blade on the poster.

Clearly the situation was unstable. The HEMP dissolution was about to become violent. Hoi and Bonavista roamed the halls. Marty was in danger. He and Moxie were isolated. He had to regroup with the only friend he could locate. He needed a way to safely enter the HEMP fortress and escape with Marty, but how? He scanned the console controls. Intercom – no, air conditioning – no, Muzac volume – definitely not. Light Master Control - this was it. The intrepid and very nervous detective found the scrolled through the room list until he found Conference Room 3 which was displayed across the bottom of the camera display. He turned off the lights on HEMP. They heard the distant sounds of gunfire.

“C’mon! Lets get up there and find Marty!” yelled Hargrove as he reached for the door.

“Forget it. I’m going to work on my rewrites here where it’s quiet. BFG Studios offered me a job as soon as my screen play is done.”

“Move you fool! There are killers on the loose. They could show up at any time.”

As if on cue, Hoi burst into the control room. Hargrove groped for his beloved Webley, which unfortunately caught in the blood-sodden material of his jacket. Hoi contemptuously batted the gun from Hargrove’s hand. “Get him Moxie,” shouted Hargrove hopefully. Moxie looked askance at the detective and clutched his script protectively to his chest.

Hoi knocked Hargrove aside with a casual flick of the wrist. The Marxist Detective slammed into the wall and blacked out before he hit the floor. Hoi glanced at Moxie, snatched the script away and tore it to confetti. As the massive detective headed toward Hargrove’s mangled form, he was startled by a high-pitched screech. Moxie flew at the Feng Shui Detective. Latching onto his back, he pummeled the aggressor with ineffectual punches. “My script! My script!” he screamed. Hoi plucked the smaller man from his back and casually broke his neck with a ballistic Paint Can technique. He cast aside the broken body in its pathetic Beefeater costume.

Hargrove climbed wearily to his feet. “Marx … glorious … capitalist pig … tripe,” he mumbled, desperately trying to orient himself. A huge shape loomed before him.

“Wherever you go, you create chaos and havoc, disrupting natural energy flows,” said Hoi. “In short, you’re a fly in the ointment. I might have killed you for that alone. It is indeed fortuitous reciprocity that results in my generous remuneration for performing an action I enjoy.” Hoi effortlessly hoisted Hargrove off the floor.

With one hand on the back of his head and the other arm across his throat, Hargrove began thrashing wildly. He could feel himself weakening. Is this how it would end? After surviving the interrogation at the hands of the fiendish Gibraltar Independence Army … after narrowly surviving the maddened firefight in the Berlin U-Bahn .. after the frenzied flight from the Oakland Young Entrepreneurs Convention … is this how it would end? Apparently so.

Hargrove’s flailing hands slapped wildly on the control console. Suddenly, as a result of his inadvertent commands, several lights on the panel began flashing, the camera monitors went into a random display and a soothing, purchase-inducing Muzac version of Bridge Over Troubled Water emanated from the control room speakers.

Hoi’s lethal choke hold weakened. Distracted by the discordant console display Hoi dropped Hargrove to the floor. He pressed his palms to his eyes as if to shut out the random juxtaposition of sights and sounds. “No!” he shouted in pain. “I must re-establish harmony in this room.” His hands flew over the controls. “You are extremely fortunate this time Hargrove, but we will meet again, very soon.”

Hargrove crawled away from his rival and retrieved his Webley. He shakily reholstered it. After a brief glance at Moxie and a silent thanks to the Creator (whichdoesnotexist) that he hadn’t met a similar fate, he left the room and staggered toward the elevator. He had to get to Marty. There were enemies on every side. He needed an ally.

When Conference Room 3 was plunged into darkness, Andy Coppola, not the most steady of personalities, panicked. “It’s Gosling!” he screamed “We’re all gonna die!” He began blindly firing his pistol in the direction of the threat, which for him was every direction.

Illumination was immediately provided but blinding muzzle flashes from multiple handguns. The thunderous reports were accompanied by screams and the sounds of overturning furniture and shattering bric-a-brac.

After emptying his magazine in every direction and diving to the floor, Junior bellowed above the din “Stop firing you idiots! Stop firing.” The reports became sporadic and then stopped. The stench of blood, loosening bowels and cordite filled the air.

“By the Great Lord’s mandibles, get some shoggoth-cursed lights on,” shouted someone from the darkness. Junior crawled to the desk and found the proper button by feel. Red emergency lighting revealed a truly hellish sight. Bodies lay scattered about the room leaking fluids best not guessed at.

Marty slowly emerged from behind the cutout. “Looks like you did Gosling’s work for him,” he observed. “Not much left of this one,” he said kicking over an inert, leaking form. The late James Haughtenburg stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Bullet holes riddled his head and torso.

Cursing under his breath, Junior went to the next body. “What the hell!” he exclaimed recoiling. Marty peered over his shoulder.

“That’s a curious gunshot wound. Looks as though Mr. Coppola’s has had his neck cut,” he mused. Junior quickly checked the other bodies. Harry Stiles had been shot three times in the head. Jimmy Stutten had died similarly. The Scott brothers had managed to avoid the gunfire, but the knife had found them as well.

Junior rounded on Marty. “Why? You killed the whole cadre! Who sent you? Who?” He ill-advisedly began shaking the driver by the shoulders. He was too enraged to see the Marty’s shirt begin to billow.

“It wasn’t him Junior. Your little insurrection is over. I’m going to feed you to Gosling myself.” Bonavista Penny stepped out from behind a bullet-riddled couch. A blade glistened redly in her steady hand.

Gosling Offant’s ancient head snapped around at the sound of gunfire. It was either HEMP or some uppity sound technicians. Studios were all the same. His very hostile takeover of BFG Studios would remain invisible to the general public but he was holding the reigns now. There were just a few loose ends to take care of, starting with whoever was shooting up HIS studio.

“Listen up! We have insurgents and we’re going to put them down. I’ll need you all to draw on your ruthlessness your cunning, your utter lack of human …” his rallying cry ground to a halt. “Does anyone smell onions?” he asked.

A figure stepped into the doorway. “I’m afraid ruthlessness and cunning are not going to be enough. You’ve all been marked. I’ve been paid. There is nothing more to be said.” There was a collective gasp from the assembled power brokers.

“Not quite Offant. But the time for talk is over.” Offant quaked at the soft French accent. The voice that seemed to promise a table near the fireplace at Le Petit Chateau but usually promised death. Pistols appeared in the figure’s hands. Each one was custom engraved with a scorpion. The deafening reports filled the room. The Saudi Princes, the Moroccan ambassador and the entire Chinese delegation were dead before they could even return fire.

Will true love blossom for our putrid pugilist and her pampered paramour? Will Hargrove finally face Le Scorpion? What the heck happened to BFG Sr?

On to Chapter 14

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[1] Philip Marlowe – “The Big Sleep”