The Money Shot Page 2

  “I’m so glad we could have this meeting,” Sammy said. Somehow he acted as if he were the host. “This is my associate, Mr. Slythe.”

  Slythe wore a pale blue turtleneck instead of a tie, and an off-white suit. His look was not welcoming. He neither smiled nor gestured. His eyes were calculating, constantly taking in information.

  Genaro had a goon on hand for muscle. “This is my associate, Jake. Gentlemen, please be seated.”

  Sammy was already pulling up a chair.

  Pete Genaro smoldered and tried to think of some way he could regain the upper hand.

  “So, have you ever run a casino before, Mr. Candelosi?”

  “I’ve been in them,” Sammy said.

  Genaro wasn’t sure if it was a joke. “Well, they don’t run themselves. You need good people. The money’s steady, but it’s work.”

  “The money’s steady?” Sammy said.

  “It is.”

  “Shouldn’t it be increasing?”

  “It is. A steady increase.”

  “Again with the word ‘steady.’”

  Genaro frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

  Sammy lit a cigar, looking around for an ashtray. Genaro moved one across the desk for him. Sammy flicked his cigar in that general direction. “You’ve been in this business a long time.”

  “I have. I know the ins and outs, if there’s anything you need to know.”

  “I need to know why you’re not rich.”

  Pete Genaro’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

  Sammy shrugged. “A casino is a gold mine. It mints money. People bring money to it, leave money in it, and take away nothing. There’s no product. In any other business, you’re selling something. Say it’s olive oil: You have it, you sell it, you run low, you need to restock your supply. But with a casino, people show up and happily plunk their money down to buy nothing. Money for nothing. That’s the best business in the world. So I take a look at your casino as I walk in, and I’m saying to myself, that’s a pretty nice operation. They should be making more money. So I’m thinking, how can we make that happen?” Sammy took a puff on his cigar. “Seems to me the easiest thing for me to do is buy you out.”

  Genaro was dumbfounded. “What?”

  “I mean, here we are, next door to each other, in competition with each other. How much better to pool our resources? If I were to buy you out and run both organizations at the same time, think of the cost benefit. Some of middle management would become redundant, and there would be no reason to waste money attempting to lure players away from each other.”

  “We don’t do that.”

  “Oh, no? I comp a high roller a suite, you comp him a suite and a hooker. I have nothing against gamblers getting laid, but why should I pay for it?”

  “Mr. Candelosi, I have no intention of selling.”

  “Don’t you have a board of directors? Wouldn’t they have to consider a bid?” Sammy flicked his ash. “Anyway, assuming a merger might be in store, any accommodation I can make, or any advice you might have on the operation of a casino, I’m not too old a dog to learn a new trick.”

  Sammy smiled and spread his arms, as if they were the best of friends.

  * * *

  —

  Son of a bitch!” Genaro growled.

  Jake, on his way back from seeing Sammy out, said, “Who?”

  “Who do you think? Sammy fucking Candelosi! He knows I’m not going to sell. That wasn’t a genuine offer. That was just posturing, strutting his stuff, trying to assert himself because he’s the new kid in town and he doesn’t like it. Well, he picked the wrong man to meddle with.” Genaro jerked his thumb. “Get over there and find out what he’s doing.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Say I sent you to help him.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “To find out what he’s doing!”

  “But—”

  “Hey, you say I sent you to help. He won’t buy it, but you get to look around. Talk to his goon.”

  “He don’t look like he talks much.”

  “Give it a shot. The worst that happens is it doesn’t work.”

  “The worst that happens is he shoots me in the fuckin’ head.”

  Genaro shrugged. “Then we’ll know it didn’t work.”

  * * *

  —

  Pete Genaro didn’t know who he was dealing with. Sammy Candelosi sized Jake up as the Trojan horse he knew him to be, and asked Jake to walk the floor with his man Slythe to tell him who his best men were. Jake, who had no idea which employees were any good, pointed out a dealer and pit boss just because he knew their names.

  The next morning, the pit boss was found floating facedown in his swimming pool, and the dealer’s car blew up.

  The police had no problem following the trail from Sammy and Slythe, who volunteered that Genaro’s man Jake had identified the victims as Sammy’s best men, to Jake, who admitted he’d done that, to Pete Genaro, who was apoplectic. He was certainly the most likely suspect in the two murders, but he was innocent. Sammy Candelosi had killed his own men just to get him in trouble.

  But try to make the cops believe that.

  The cops didn’t have enough evidence to arrest Genaro, but by the time they were gone, one thing was clear.

  Pete Genaro had backed into the middle of an undeclared mob war.

  4

  Teddy Fay watched from the sidelines as Tessa Tweed Bacchetti and Brad Hunter finished up their scene on the soundstage on the Centurion Pictures back lot. Brad was the name above the title, and Tessa a featured actress, but for Teddy’s money, she was playing him off the stage.

  Peter and Ben had discovered Tessa when they first started at Centurion Pictures. A young British actress, Tessa had been in town to visit her mother, who was staying with Peter’s father, Stone Barrington, at the time. The boys wangled Tessa a screen test. She photographed well, and read even better, and wound up winning a part.

  She also won the heart of Ben Bacchetti, Peter’s best friend and the future head of Centurion Studios. She’d been working steadily ever since, and not just because of her husband’s position. She really was that good.

  Teddy enjoyed watching her. Teddy enjoyed most everything about the movies. He liked producing them in his persona of Billy Barnett, and he got a real kick out of playing the villain in his new guise of Mark Weldon. Teddy could shoot people with no repercussions whatsoever. People liked him to do it, as long as he didn’t bump off the hero. As long as he got his retribution in the end.

  Teddy understood the premise, but he didn’t entirely buy it. He could envision a script where he wound up killing the hero and getting away. He wondered if he could sell Peter on the idea.

  On the movie set, Tessa delivered her last line.

  “Cut,” Peter said. “And that’s a new setup. It’s a camera move. Actors, take a break until called, but don’t go far. Our crew is good.”

  Tessa sought Teddy out as soon as she was off the set. “Was I all right?”

  “You were great.”

  “I felt a little off.”

  “With you, a little off is sensational.”

  “Don’t kid me. I’m serious.”

  “So am I. You’re acting rings around the guy. If you ask me, they’ve got the credits flip-flopped.”

  Tessa wasn’t up to playful banter. “Listen. Can I talk to you?”

  Teddy saw the anxiety in her eyes, but gave no sign. He simply said, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

  * * *

  —

  Teddy took Tessa down to the commissary. Actors and crew members filled most of the tables.

  “It’s crowded,” Tessa said.

  “Sure,” Teddy said. “Everyone can hear us, so no one will bother to listen to us. Come on.”

/>   They got cups of coffee and found an unoccupied table near the back.

  Teddy took a gulp of coffee and smiled a huge smile for the benefit of anyone who might be looking their way. “Okay,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

  Tessa took a breath. “I’m being blackmailed.”

  “What?” Teddy said incredulously.

  “At least I think I am.”

  “You think you are?”

  “I received a letter.”

  “With a blackmail demand?”

  “No.”

  Teddy blinked.

  Tessa put up her hands. “I know, I know, I’m telling it badly. I’m upset.”

  “What was in the letter?”

  “A photo.”

  Teddy nodded. “I see. A photo of what?”

  Tessa stirred her coffee as if she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I had a boyfriend at university.”

  “I’m shocked. What university?”

  “Oxford.”

  “Go on. Who was the boyfriend?”

  “Nigel Hightower the Third. He looks just like he sounds, the type of boy who’d fit right in at Ascot or the local racquet club.”

  “A real Prince Charming.”

  “On the surface.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know how you think you know someone and they turn out to be someone else?”

  Teddy smiled. In his twenty years at the CIA, not to mention the years since leaving it, he had found that to be true more often than not. Teddy’s default mode was suspicious.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Well, that’s how it was with Nigel. When I was with him, it all seemed so ideal. We were in college, we had no concerns, nothing more to deal with than classes. Only we weren’t in the same fields. I was studying acting, and he was getting a gentleman’s C. Anyway, it was idyllic, and he was so romantic. It never occurred to me he would do such a thing.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He filmed me without my knowledge.”

  “In bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “With him?”

  She nodded.

  “And showed it to people?”

  “I don’t think he did. I think he just hung on to it.”

  “You never knew about it?”

  “I found out. It was one of the reasons we broke up.”

  “You didn’t take the tape?”

  “He said he destroyed it. I thought he was telling the truth—he was never malicious, just used poor judgment. I should have known better.”

  “If he held on to the tape and never showed anyone, what happened?”

  “I became famous, or at least I have a career in pictures. I think he couldn’t help bragging he’d once dated a movie star.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m assuming he shot his mouth off, got drunk and bragged about the tape.”

  “And that’s what the photo is?”

  “It was a still from the video. At least that’s what the letter said. They said it was just a sample, they had the whole thing, and if I didn’t want anyone to see the tape, I’d do exactly as they say.”

  “Which is?”

  “They didn’t tell me yet. I’m to await further instructions.”

  “What about the letter?”

  “It came through the mail. It was typed. No return address.”

  “Do you think it’s your ex-boyfriend who’s doing this?”

  “Nigel? No, he wouldn’t. That’s not his style. He’d do something dumb, sure. Something weak and cowardly, like brag to impress someone. But blackmail? I don’t see it.”

  “No one’s asked you for money,” Teddy pointed out.

  Tessa frowned. “You mean, could this just be his way of coming back into my life?”

  “It’s a thought. Is it possible?”

  “It seems farfetched. I’m married, after all.”

  Teddy smiled. “That’s often not a deal breaker.”

  “I’m not ruling it out. I just don’t think it is.”

  “Let me ask you this. Did you keep a copy of the tape?”

  “No.”

  “I’m thinking maybe he gave you the tape, saying it was the original, and you found out later he kept a copy.”

  “No, I told you. He said he destroyed it.”

  “And he never gave you a copy?”

  “No. If there was a copy, I never knew it.”

  Teddy frowned.

  “What’s the big idea?” Tessa said.

  “I’m just trying to figure out how someone could have gotten his hands on it if it wasn’t through Nigel.”

  Tessa shook her head. “There’s no way. I swear, I never had a tape.”

  Teddy frowned again.

  Tessa looked at him with pleading eyes. “So, what can I do?”

  Teddy considered. “Where’s the letter?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Let me have it.”

  “You’re going to look at the photo?”

  “I don’t need the photo. Just the letter.”

  Tessa opened her purse and pulled out the letter. It was in a standard white business-sized envelope. She opened it, took out the photo, and put it back in her purse. She started to take the letter out of the envelope.

  “No, the whole thing,” Teddy said. He slipped the letter into his jacket pocket. “Okay, it’s in my hands now. You’ve got a movie to make. Concentrate on that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Let me worry about that. For the moment, no one’s asked you for anything. The minute they do, you come to me.”

  5

  Mason Kimble pressed Play again. He never got tired of watching the video. Ben Bacchetti’s wife. It was almost too good to be true.

  Ben Bacchetti had shot down his project. A Kimble & Cardigan picture was not good enough for Centurion, not “classy” enough. Bacchetti had treated him like a B-movie producer, and he would pay for the insult.

  The only thing you needed to make a film classy was a studio logo. Slap “Centurion Studios Presents” on the front of any one of his films, and suddenly it would be respectable, getting the better bookings, going into the better theaters. With studio backing, his profits would soar.

  Mason snatched up the remote control and rewound the video to the scene he liked. Mason had to hook up a DVD player so he could watch it in his office, instead of stepping into the editing room, but it was worth it. He liked to watch it from his desk, with the posters on the wall behind him from his pictures, Girl on the Edge, Sheila’s Last Chance. So what if his “studio” was a second-floor walk-up over a lingerie shop? His pictures made money.

  Granted, Centurion’s pictures made money, too, with the exception of the occasional highbrow film made for limited release in artsy little theaters, some of which didn’t even sell popcorn, for Christ’s sake. They might break even, but what was the point? All of Mason’s pictures made money, just not as much as they’d make with the Centurion logo and the wider distribution that came with it.

  But Ben Bacchetti, the arrogant prick, had shot him down, and Mason Kimble was back to square one.

  Then Mason’s father, the eccentric tobacco mogul, died intestate—at least, no one could find his will—and suddenly Mason had the wherewithal to make a B-movie studio legit.

  And pay Ben Bacchetti back in the process.

  Mason froze the video on his favorite shot. It was much more revealing than the one he had sent to Tessa Bacchetti.

  “And there’s the money shot,” he murmured.

  Mason enjoyed it for a while, then ejected the DVD and locked it in his wall safe.

  6

  Teddy went back to the house he maintained as producer Billy Barnett. It still gave him a pang, even after all this time,
to be in the home where he and Charmaine had lived as man and wife. When he’d stolen her away from Pete Genaro, she’d married him and taken the name Elizabeth Barnett. As Betsy Barnett, she’d worked as Peter’s assistant at Centurion Studios. Then her life had been cruelly snuffed out by a drunken driver. Teddy had made sure those responsible had paid, and had moved on with a short relationship with a woman he met during the process. But Sally’s home was in New Mexico and his was here, and in the end, never the twain could meet.

  Teddy went into the study and fired up the computer. He scanned Tessa’s blackmail letter, as well as the envelope, and ran it through a program of his own devising. It quickly identified the typeface as Helvetica, and went on to identify the brand of computer using that type, based on irregularities in the typeface itself. After careful analysis, and a few refinements of the search process, he was able to identify the particular model.

  Teddy pierced a few firewalls, went straight to the manufacturer, and monitored the sales in L.A. The letter had an L.A. postmark, and the odds were it hadn’t been typed elsewhere and brought to town to mail. Among the sales of that particular model of computer were a large number sold to a chain of L.A. copy shops about seven years back. Several of them had subsequently closed—not surprising with fewer and fewer people wanting hard copies in a digital age—but three were still open. A blackmailer would appreciate the anonymity offered by a copy shop computer—it might be a long shot, but Teddy never left any stone unturned. He grabbed his car keys and headed out.

  The computer at the closest shop was out of order, and the computer at the second shop was working, but had an HP printer. Tessa’s letter had been inked by the printer that came with the machine, not an HP. The third shop was the charm.

  Teddy got on the computer and ran a search for the document, though it seemed too much to hope that the blackmailer had been idiotic enough to save it to a public machine. It was. The letter was not there. He could still have found it if it had been saved and then deleted, a pain in the ass but doable, but that wasn’t the case. The letter had been typed, printed from the draft, and never saved. And that was assuming this was the right computer, no sure bet.