Chump Change.
3rd book in "Fish" Fishbein's Adventures in La-La Land series
PROLOGUE & Chapter 1
There was a time when the Queen Mary was the fastest, most elegant way to get from the home of the brave to Europe. Every night aboard ship, male passengers would wrestle their way into badly fitting tuxedos and then escort their mink-upholstered wives to dinner at lavish place settings within spitting distance of the Captain’s table. Picture William Powell and Myrna Loy, dressed to the nines, tippling and gaily quipping their way across the Atlantic.
But it’s been a while.
Now the Queen Mary sits marooned on the Long Beach side of the L.A. harbor, a sort of convention facility and wanna-be luxury hotel that, on a good year, might draw almost as many guests as the Hollywood Wax Museum.
So, it’s not every day that a splashy, invitation only black tie awards dinner books passage aboard the Queen Mary.
And what’s even rarer is the invitation list for this particular night’s festivities: almost three hundred of southern California’s most successful pimps, drug dealers, outlaw bikers, car thieves and miscellaneous ne’er do wells.
A gaggle of Angelenos so close to the bottom of the celebrity food chain Kathy Griffin wouldn’t even return their calls.
The limos begin rolling up to the Queen Mary’s gangplank at a little after six, disgorging their cargo of invitees and their companions, all sporting enough sequins, rhinestones and pimp flash to bring back visions of the New York Knicks in all their disco era, Madison Square Garden splendor.
Next to arrive is a whole assortment of bikers reminiscent of the motorcycle gangs immortalized on film by Roger Corman back in the ‘60’s, all looking extremely sharp in their freshly dry cleaned club colors.
Outside, it’s truly a Hollywood style event, with searchlights trying to light up the late afternoon skies and a video crew covering an emcee breathlessly interviewing the arriving guests as they strut their way up the red carpet.
Inside, all the stops have been pulled, with a couple of dozen beefy, clean cut waiters and designer gown draped hostesses, formally set tables, plus a DJ and mobile disco on the stage.
The master of ceremonies starts the evening off with a few bad jokes, thanks everyone for coming and announces that the grand prize drawing will be held right after dinner.
A short time later, the waiters clear away the last of the dessert plates and the master of ceremonies returns to the podium. First, he delivers a long and sappy speech about what a worthwhile charity the Police Youth League is, and how thankful the organization is for tonight’s turnout.
Then he tells the crowd that before the grand prize drawing can take place, he and the dinner’s organizers have a special surprise for everyone in the room.
The audience loudly applauds, the house lights come up and the DJ lets loose with a few bars of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”, while one of the hostesses hands the master of ceremonies a small black velvet bag.
“We all think you guys are pretty damn special,” he says, to a polite round of applause from the crowd. “And we’ve put together some unforgettable gifts for each and every one of you.”
More applause from the audience. Even a few loud whistles.
“First, is an all-expense paid vacation, courtesy of both the Mayor of Los Angeles and the Governor of the State of California.”
The cheers and applause are almost deafening and half the diners are on their feet, whistling and clapping.
“But that’s not all!” he has to yell to be heard over the cheers and applause. “There’s more!”
He pulls a pair of gleaming, chrome plated handcuffs out of the velvet bag.
“Jewelry!”
The rest of the diners jump to their feet, laughing, cheering and loudly applauding.
The master of ceremonies finally has to put his hands up to ask for a little quiet.
“Now, before we present you with your special gifts, I just want to read you all a little something that comes straight from the heart.”
More polite cheers and clapping.
The master of ceremonies removes a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and makes a big, comic show of unfolding the document and putting on his reading glasses. Then he clears his throat.
“Congratulations,” he announces. “You are all under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The house lights come up as the cheers, smiles and laughter quickly die away.
“You have the right to talk with a lawyer and have him present with you during questioning. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish. Do you all understand these rights?”
By now, the waiters and hostesses are circulating from table to table, efficiently patting down their dinner guests and zip tying everyone’s hands behind their backs. And the pimps, drug dealers, car thieves and alleged ne’er do wells seated around the tables are all too shocked, stuffed and buzzed to put up any resistance.
There’s nothing like a surprise Miranda Rights Card reading and heavily armed SWAT members blocking every exit to put the kybosh on a good buzz.
Chapter 1
If you’re trying to get from one end of Los Angeles to the other during rush hour, you’ve got two choices.
Assuming you’re the head of Disney, ABC or 20th Century Fox, your corporate helicopter can whisk you where you need to be before the Grande, half-caf two-pump Chai Latté in your cup holder has a chance to cool off.
But if you’re anyone else, you’re stuck sharing the Ventura, Santa Monica or San Diego Freeways with three or four million of your closest friends.
Which means, sometimes the best way to get where you’re going in L.A. is just to be born there.
The man checked the rear view mirror on the left side of his handlebar, pulled in his clutch lever and kicked his Harley down into second gear. Then he eased his old school chopper into the space between his traffic lane and the one on his right and moved out at a steady thirty five miles per hour. Meanwhile, the rest of the vehicles on either side of him continued inching forward like a herd of caterpillars, all busily converting the Sepulveda Pass section of the San Diego Freeway into the world’s longest parking lot.
The rider’s name was Moe Fishbein.
“Fish” to his friends.
In this town, everyone was a hyphenate of one kind or another. You had your actor-producers; your actor-directors; your parking valet-screenwriters and orthodontist-talent managers.
But Fish was a hyphenate of a different color.
He was a chef-attorney-repo man-bounty hunter, enjoying a few days off.
Fish had worked his way through night law school as a restaurant sous chef and passed the California Bar exam on his first try. Then, a few years later, he turned his back on the partnership offer at Uptight, Rigid, Repressed & Lipshitz to live at the beach and just dabble.
These days, he practiced a little law here, a little vehicular repossession and fugitive apprehension there.
He might never earn enough to get a write-up in Forbes.
But then again, as founder and CEO of Big Dog Recoveries, he worked when he wanted; for whom he wanted; and still managed to support a lifestyle that included a home perched above the cliffs on the North end of Malibu. Not to mention days off playing on seventy K worth of custom designed “old school” chopper, blasting up and down the coast and carving some of the local canyons with the two heavily tattooed, hog riding junior members of the firm, who lived in his guest house.
Small wonder Fish spent a lot of his waking day smiling.
He pulled to the curb in front of a modest $800K post World War II starter home a block South of Ventura Boulevard, climbed off his Harley and started hoofing it down to the busy thoroughfare. If the San Fernando Valley had a main drag, Ventura Boulevard was it, a twenty five-mile long collection of boutiques, trendy salons, overpriced little restaurants, discount furniture and lighting galleries and garish strip malls that stretched from just outside Universal Studios in Studio City, all the way out to the Kardashian’s back yard in Calabasas.
To Fish, the Valley was a lot like Long Island–with palm trees.
He strolled a hundred feet up Ventura Boulevard, held the door for a junior development exec from NBC who was too busy texting on her smart phone to nod a polite thanks, and then walked inside.
The huge neon sign above the entrance pretty much said it all:
“ART’S DELI. Where every sandwich is a work of Art.”
Muslims the world over might pray to Mecca five times a day.
But for members of the tribe who resided within a time zone or two of Studio City, one of the holiest spots on Earth had to be Art’s Deli.
Starting fifty some-odd years ago with a passion for cold cuts and traditional Jewish fare that was just like momma wished she used to make, Art and his wife opened a small storefront deli just down the street from where Ventura Boulevard collided with Laurel Canyon. The place was a monument to good food and gargantuan servings, and it became an instant hit, doubling and then tripling its size as the stores on either side became available.
Fish scanned the inside of the eatery, looking for his appointment.
Over in one corner, he spotted a couple of stand-up comics he recognized from their HBO specials.
In another, sat a height challenged “bad boy” rock star with a pirate bandana wrapped around his head, a tendency to punch first and ask questions later, and a voice like a cat caught in a Cuisinart.
Fish watched as a pair of middle aged, former Valley Girls approached him for an autograph, interrupting the flow of the ketchup he was pouring over his breakfast.
Bad boy’s unspoken answer was the handful of loosely scrambled eggs and Del Monte he tossed at his two fans.
Little guys with big-ass egos.
Fish chuckled silently while a Cheshire cat-like grin spread across his face.
You gotta love this town.
Since he still couldn’t spot his appointment, he let the hostess seat him in a booth along Art’s Art Wall, an unbroken surface that ran from the front of the deli back to the rear and separated it from the high end toddler boutique next door. Equally spaced along the wall were humongous four foot by six foot, framed full color photos, extreme close-ups of some of Art’s creations. Each sandwich was posed with its two halves facing each other at an angle that lovingly displayed every moist, glistening layer of rare roast beef, ham or pastrami and every luscious globule of fat in all its glory.
And earned the wall full of oversized food portraits the nickname of “Jewish Porn”.
Fish rested both arms across the back of his booth and tilted his head straight up, taking in his upside down view of the entire wall. He started to chuckle as he caught himself wondering what would have happened, had Hugh Hefner had been born into the tribe. The centerfolds in Playboy would probably have sported a completely different look.
“Sorry I’m a little late, Fish.”
“Lemme guess. Car trouble? You couldn’t find your way?”
“Something like that. Anyway, sorry if I held you up.”
Fish slowly tilted his head down from his view of the wall full of salacious Hebraic wall decor.
“No sweat, Arnie. I mean, you gotta take that left on Wilshire at Crescent Heights, stay on it until it turns into Laurel Canyon, then follow it over the hill and hang another left on Ventura. Hey, I know it’s a long way from brain surgery, but some guys just can’t handle the pressure.”
He chuckled and motioned for Arnie to take a seat.
“Here, take a load off.”
Having been an attorney for a number of years, Fish didn’t have a lot of use for most barristers.
Or even much respect.
Especially for Arnie.
At best, they were usually long on brains and education, but missing that special chromosome that governed conscience, ethics and morality. Dig deep enough into any big-time financial or political scandal and you’re bound to unearth a few law school graduates rooting around in the muck.
At worst, they could be too bumbling and/or unimaginative to do anything but make life a living Hell for their clients.
Like Arnold Kaufman.
Arnie Babe to his showbiz clients.
He was bright enough to graduate UCLA Law in the middle of the pack, but had to take three runs at the California Bar exam in order to pass. From there, he did what any newly minted lawyer with limited talent and big family connections did–he became a Hollywood agent.
Eventually, he pushed his first and only client into her big break in the movies.
Too bad she had to go and get clipped by a hit man who paraded around in black Armani and talked like Marilyn Monroe.
After that, Arnie made the jump from agent to producer, selling his former client’s life and death story for a movie that was so bad it premiered on airliners. And not American or United; the only place to catch that turkey was aboard a Southwest Airlines Flight.
But that was then.
“OK, Arnie. You called this little meeting. What’s it all about?”
Arnie Babe started rummaging around in his briefcase. “Fish, you ever heard the saying, ‘Opportunity only knocks once?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, right now it’s pounding hard on your front door, Buddy. With both fists.”
He tossed a stack of slick looking brochures onto the table top. “Pitch” folders that TV production companies put together to sell broadcast and cable TV networks on their ideas for new series.
“And it wants to make the two of us rich.”
“So, why is opportunity being so generous with me?”
“Reality TV, Fish. You ever hear of it?”
“Y’mean like that father and son who build custom choppers together, but hate each other’s guts?”
Fish tossed the brochures back onto the pile.
“Thanks, Arnie. But I need that kind of opportunity like a moose needs a hat rack.”
“Don’t knock it, my friend. That show’s made multimillionaires out of both those guys. The same for those nut jobs who fish for crabs out on the Bering Sea. Or what about that guy who whispers at dogs?”
Arnie dug another brochure out of his briefcase and set it face down on the table. “You get a hot reality show and you can make millions off it. Trust me.”
“And you want me to help you produce a reality TV Show?”
Arnie shook his head.
“No Fish, I want you to star in your own reality show. What do you think of this?” He held up both hands with index fingers reaching skyward and thumbs pointed at each other to frame what he was saying.
“Fish … Bounty Hunter to the Stars.”
He turned the brochure over and slid it in front of Fish.
The show’s title was printed in huge letters that took up two lines of type.
Below that was a photo of Fish, on his old school chopper, along with his two assistants, Einstein and Kenny, on theirs.
All Fish could do was shake his head and chuckle.
His cell phone suddenly rang and he switched it over to speakerphone as he answered.
“Speak,” he chuckled at the phone.
“That you, Fish?”
“Yeah, Elias. What’s up?”
“I’m in a real bind here. And I need your help.”
Elias Hope was the owner of There’s Always Hope, a bail bond agency he ran out of a tired old double wide trailer along one of the rare stretches of Hollywood Boulevard that hadn’t gone insultingly upscale yet. Elias was a good guy, one of Fish’s major sources of income. And if he was in a pickle, only one thing could have put him there.
“You got a Failure to Appear for me?”
“What do you mean, an FTA? We’re talkin’ a foursome here.”
What Elias had was Norman Shimazu, Robbie Gubbins, Antwon Porter, and Javier “Bosco” Chubasco, four knuckleheaded, lifelong friends with big dreams of making it in the exciting and high-paying field of car theft.
They’d gotten picked up a couple of weeks ago in a huge award banquet sting at the Queen Mary, a joint venture run by LAPD and the County Sheriffs. The four were charged with a smorgasbord of small time misdemeanors and Elias bonded them out.
Their hearing was yesterday, only they must not have gotten the memo.
Hence, the Failure to Appear warrants. If Fish could round them up and deliver them forthwith to the nearest pokey, he’d pick up a fast eight grand. If not, Elias would be out eighty large for all their bails.
“So,” Elias said. “Can you help me out here?”
“No worries, man. I’ll bring Einstein and Kenny, and we’ll grab these guys up tonight around three, when they’ll either be asleep or sleeping it off. You got an address?”
Arnie kept his eyes glued on the sheet of paper on which Fish was writing Norman Shimazu’s last known residence.
Fish promised to give Elias a call as soon as central booking handed him the body receipts for the four and then hung up.
”See what I mean?” Arnie Babe piped up as Fish slid his cell phone into his shirt pocket. “You’re a natural for this, Buddy. Next couple of calls you go out on, let me come along with a cameraman. We’ll get enough video to put a killer pilot together. And you won’t even know we’re there. Trust me.”
3rd book in "Fish" Fishbein's Adventures in La-La Land series
PROLOGUE & Chapter 1
There was a time when the Queen Mary was the fastest, most elegant way to get from the home of the brave to Europe. Every night aboard ship, male passengers would wrestle their way into badly fitting tuxedos and then escort their mink-upholstered wives to dinner at lavish place settings within spitting distance of the Captain’s table. Picture William Powell and Myrna Loy, dressed to the nines, tippling and gaily quipping their way across the Atlantic.
But it’s been a while.
Now the Queen Mary sits marooned on the Long Beach side of the L.A. harbor, a sort of convention facility and wanna-be luxury hotel that, on a good year, might draw almost as many guests as the Hollywood Wax Museum.
So, it’s not every day that a splashy, invitation only black tie awards dinner books passage aboard the Queen Mary.
And what’s even rarer is the invitation list for this particular night’s festivities: almost three hundred of southern California’s most successful pimps, drug dealers, outlaw bikers, car thieves and miscellaneous ne’er do wells.
A gaggle of Angelenos so close to the bottom of the celebrity food chain Kathy Griffin wouldn’t even return their calls.
The limos begin rolling up to the Queen Mary’s gangplank at a little after six, disgorging their cargo of invitees and their companions, all sporting enough sequins, rhinestones and pimp flash to bring back visions of the New York Knicks in all their disco era, Madison Square Garden splendor.
Next to arrive is a whole assortment of bikers reminiscent of the motorcycle gangs immortalized on film by Roger Corman back in the ‘60’s, all looking extremely sharp in their freshly dry cleaned club colors.
Outside, it’s truly a Hollywood style event, with searchlights trying to light up the late afternoon skies and a video crew covering an emcee breathlessly interviewing the arriving guests as they strut their way up the red carpet.
Inside, all the stops have been pulled, with a couple of dozen beefy, clean cut waiters and designer gown draped hostesses, formally set tables, plus a DJ and mobile disco on the stage.
The master of ceremonies starts the evening off with a few bad jokes, thanks everyone for coming and announces that the grand prize drawing will be held right after dinner.
A short time later, the waiters clear away the last of the dessert plates and the master of ceremonies returns to the podium. First, he delivers a long and sappy speech about what a worthwhile charity the Police Youth League is, and how thankful the organization is for tonight’s turnout.
Then he tells the crowd that before the grand prize drawing can take place, he and the dinner’s organizers have a special surprise for everyone in the room.
The audience loudly applauds, the house lights come up and the DJ lets loose with a few bars of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”, while one of the hostesses hands the master of ceremonies a small black velvet bag.
“We all think you guys are pretty damn special,” he says, to a polite round of applause from the crowd. “And we’ve put together some unforgettable gifts for each and every one of you.”
More applause from the audience. Even a few loud whistles.
“First, is an all-expense paid vacation, courtesy of both the Mayor of Los Angeles and the Governor of the State of California.”
The cheers and applause are almost deafening and half the diners are on their feet, whistling and clapping.
“But that’s not all!” he has to yell to be heard over the cheers and applause. “There’s more!”
He pulls a pair of gleaming, chrome plated handcuffs out of the velvet bag.
“Jewelry!”
The rest of the diners jump to their feet, laughing, cheering and loudly applauding.
The master of ceremonies finally has to put his hands up to ask for a little quiet.
“Now, before we present you with your special gifts, I just want to read you all a little something that comes straight from the heart.”
More polite cheers and clapping.
The master of ceremonies removes a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and makes a big, comic show of unfolding the document and putting on his reading glasses. Then he clears his throat.
“Congratulations,” he announces. “You are all under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The house lights come up as the cheers, smiles and laughter quickly die away.
“You have the right to talk with a lawyer and have him present with you during questioning. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish. Do you all understand these rights?”
By now, the waiters and hostesses are circulating from table to table, efficiently patting down their dinner guests and zip tying everyone’s hands behind their backs. And the pimps, drug dealers, car thieves and alleged ne’er do wells seated around the tables are all too shocked, stuffed and buzzed to put up any resistance.
There’s nothing like a surprise Miranda Rights Card reading and heavily armed SWAT members blocking every exit to put the kybosh on a good buzz.
Chapter 1
If you’re trying to get from one end of Los Angeles to the other during rush hour, you’ve got two choices.
Assuming you’re the head of Disney, ABC or 20th Century Fox, your corporate helicopter can whisk you where you need to be before the Grande, half-caf two-pump Chai Latté in your cup holder has a chance to cool off.
But if you’re anyone else, you’re stuck sharing the Ventura, Santa Monica or San Diego Freeways with three or four million of your closest friends.
Which means, sometimes the best way to get where you’re going in L.A. is just to be born there.
The man checked the rear view mirror on the left side of his handlebar, pulled in his clutch lever and kicked his Harley down into second gear. Then he eased his old school chopper into the space between his traffic lane and the one on his right and moved out at a steady thirty five miles per hour. Meanwhile, the rest of the vehicles on either side of him continued inching forward like a herd of caterpillars, all busily converting the Sepulveda Pass section of the San Diego Freeway into the world’s longest parking lot.
The rider’s name was Moe Fishbein.
“Fish” to his friends.
In this town, everyone was a hyphenate of one kind or another. You had your actor-producers; your actor-directors; your parking valet-screenwriters and orthodontist-talent managers.
But Fish was a hyphenate of a different color.
He was a chef-attorney-repo man-bounty hunter, enjoying a few days off.
Fish had worked his way through night law school as a restaurant sous chef and passed the California Bar exam on his first try. Then, a few years later, he turned his back on the partnership offer at Uptight, Rigid, Repressed & Lipshitz to live at the beach and just dabble.
These days, he practiced a little law here, a little vehicular repossession and fugitive apprehension there.
He might never earn enough to get a write-up in Forbes.
But then again, as founder and CEO of Big Dog Recoveries, he worked when he wanted; for whom he wanted; and still managed to support a lifestyle that included a home perched above the cliffs on the North end of Malibu. Not to mention days off playing on seventy K worth of custom designed “old school” chopper, blasting up and down the coast and carving some of the local canyons with the two heavily tattooed, hog riding junior members of the firm, who lived in his guest house.
Small wonder Fish spent a lot of his waking day smiling.
He pulled to the curb in front of a modest $800K post World War II starter home a block South of Ventura Boulevard, climbed off his Harley and started hoofing it down to the busy thoroughfare. If the San Fernando Valley had a main drag, Ventura Boulevard was it, a twenty five-mile long collection of boutiques, trendy salons, overpriced little restaurants, discount furniture and lighting galleries and garish strip malls that stretched from just outside Universal Studios in Studio City, all the way out to the Kardashian’s back yard in Calabasas.
To Fish, the Valley was a lot like Long Island–with palm trees.
He strolled a hundred feet up Ventura Boulevard, held the door for a junior development exec from NBC who was too busy texting on her smart phone to nod a polite thanks, and then walked inside.
The huge neon sign above the entrance pretty much said it all:
“ART’S DELI. Where every sandwich is a work of Art.”
Muslims the world over might pray to Mecca five times a day.
But for members of the tribe who resided within a time zone or two of Studio City, one of the holiest spots on Earth had to be Art’s Deli.
Starting fifty some-odd years ago with a passion for cold cuts and traditional Jewish fare that was just like momma wished she used to make, Art and his wife opened a small storefront deli just down the street from where Ventura Boulevard collided with Laurel Canyon. The place was a monument to good food and gargantuan servings, and it became an instant hit, doubling and then tripling its size as the stores on either side became available.
Fish scanned the inside of the eatery, looking for his appointment.
Over in one corner, he spotted a couple of stand-up comics he recognized from their HBO specials.
In another, sat a height challenged “bad boy” rock star with a pirate bandana wrapped around his head, a tendency to punch first and ask questions later, and a voice like a cat caught in a Cuisinart.
Fish watched as a pair of middle aged, former Valley Girls approached him for an autograph, interrupting the flow of the ketchup he was pouring over his breakfast.
Bad boy’s unspoken answer was the handful of loosely scrambled eggs and Del Monte he tossed at his two fans.
Little guys with big-ass egos.
Fish chuckled silently while a Cheshire cat-like grin spread across his face.
You gotta love this town.
Since he still couldn’t spot his appointment, he let the hostess seat him in a booth along Art’s Art Wall, an unbroken surface that ran from the front of the deli back to the rear and separated it from the high end toddler boutique next door. Equally spaced along the wall were humongous four foot by six foot, framed full color photos, extreme close-ups of some of Art’s creations. Each sandwich was posed with its two halves facing each other at an angle that lovingly displayed every moist, glistening layer of rare roast beef, ham or pastrami and every luscious globule of fat in all its glory.
And earned the wall full of oversized food portraits the nickname of “Jewish Porn”.
Fish rested both arms across the back of his booth and tilted his head straight up, taking in his upside down view of the entire wall. He started to chuckle as he caught himself wondering what would have happened, had Hugh Hefner had been born into the tribe. The centerfolds in Playboy would probably have sported a completely different look.
“Sorry I’m a little late, Fish.”
“Lemme guess. Car trouble? You couldn’t find your way?”
“Something like that. Anyway, sorry if I held you up.”
Fish slowly tilted his head down from his view of the wall full of salacious Hebraic wall decor.
“No sweat, Arnie. I mean, you gotta take that left on Wilshire at Crescent Heights, stay on it until it turns into Laurel Canyon, then follow it over the hill and hang another left on Ventura. Hey, I know it’s a long way from brain surgery, but some guys just can’t handle the pressure.”
He chuckled and motioned for Arnie to take a seat.
“Here, take a load off.”
Having been an attorney for a number of years, Fish didn’t have a lot of use for most barristers.
Or even much respect.
Especially for Arnie.
At best, they were usually long on brains and education, but missing that special chromosome that governed conscience, ethics and morality. Dig deep enough into any big-time financial or political scandal and you’re bound to unearth a few law school graduates rooting around in the muck.
At worst, they could be too bumbling and/or unimaginative to do anything but make life a living Hell for their clients.
Like Arnold Kaufman.
Arnie Babe to his showbiz clients.
He was bright enough to graduate UCLA Law in the middle of the pack, but had to take three runs at the California Bar exam in order to pass. From there, he did what any newly minted lawyer with limited talent and big family connections did–he became a Hollywood agent.
Eventually, he pushed his first and only client into her big break in the movies.
Too bad she had to go and get clipped by a hit man who paraded around in black Armani and talked like Marilyn Monroe.
After that, Arnie made the jump from agent to producer, selling his former client’s life and death story for a movie that was so bad it premiered on airliners. And not American or United; the only place to catch that turkey was aboard a Southwest Airlines Flight.
But that was then.
“OK, Arnie. You called this little meeting. What’s it all about?”
Arnie Babe started rummaging around in his briefcase. “Fish, you ever heard the saying, ‘Opportunity only knocks once?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, right now it’s pounding hard on your front door, Buddy. With both fists.”
He tossed a stack of slick looking brochures onto the table top. “Pitch” folders that TV production companies put together to sell broadcast and cable TV networks on their ideas for new series.
“And it wants to make the two of us rich.”
“So, why is opportunity being so generous with me?”
“Reality TV, Fish. You ever hear of it?”
“Y’mean like that father and son who build custom choppers together, but hate each other’s guts?”
Fish tossed the brochures back onto the pile.
“Thanks, Arnie. But I need that kind of opportunity like a moose needs a hat rack.”
“Don’t knock it, my friend. That show’s made multimillionaires out of both those guys. The same for those nut jobs who fish for crabs out on the Bering Sea. Or what about that guy who whispers at dogs?”
Arnie dug another brochure out of his briefcase and set it face down on the table. “You get a hot reality show and you can make millions off it. Trust me.”
“And you want me to help you produce a reality TV Show?”
Arnie shook his head.
“No Fish, I want you to star in your own reality show. What do you think of this?” He held up both hands with index fingers reaching skyward and thumbs pointed at each other to frame what he was saying.
“Fish … Bounty Hunter to the Stars.”
He turned the brochure over and slid it in front of Fish.
The show’s title was printed in huge letters that took up two lines of type.
Below that was a photo of Fish, on his old school chopper, along with his two assistants, Einstein and Kenny, on theirs.
All Fish could do was shake his head and chuckle.
His cell phone suddenly rang and he switched it over to speakerphone as he answered.
“Speak,” he chuckled at the phone.
“That you, Fish?”
“Yeah, Elias. What’s up?”
“I’m in a real bind here. And I need your help.”
Elias Hope was the owner of There’s Always Hope, a bail bond agency he ran out of a tired old double wide trailer along one of the rare stretches of Hollywood Boulevard that hadn’t gone insultingly upscale yet. Elias was a good guy, one of Fish’s major sources of income. And if he was in a pickle, only one thing could have put him there.
“You got a Failure to Appear for me?”
“What do you mean, an FTA? We’re talkin’ a foursome here.”
What Elias had was Norman Shimazu, Robbie Gubbins, Antwon Porter, and Javier “Bosco” Chubasco, four knuckleheaded, lifelong friends with big dreams of making it in the exciting and high-paying field of car theft.
They’d gotten picked up a couple of weeks ago in a huge award banquet sting at the Queen Mary, a joint venture run by LAPD and the County Sheriffs. The four were charged with a smorgasbord of small time misdemeanors and Elias bonded them out.
Their hearing was yesterday, only they must not have gotten the memo.
Hence, the Failure to Appear warrants. If Fish could round them up and deliver them forthwith to the nearest pokey, he’d pick up a fast eight grand. If not, Elias would be out eighty large for all their bails.
“So,” Elias said. “Can you help me out here?”
“No worries, man. I’ll bring Einstein and Kenny, and we’ll grab these guys up tonight around three, when they’ll either be asleep or sleeping it off. You got an address?”
Arnie kept his eyes glued on the sheet of paper on which Fish was writing Norman Shimazu’s last known residence.
Fish promised to give Elias a call as soon as central booking handed him the body receipts for the four and then hung up.
”See what I mean?” Arnie Babe piped up as Fish slid his cell phone into his shirt pocket. “You’re a natural for this, Buddy. Next couple of calls you go out on, let me come along with a cameraman. We’ll get enough video to put a killer pilot together. And you won’t even know we’re there. Trust me.”