Fun and Games by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online Page A

out on his own. He might think the whole area is out and step outside to check.”
    “How about I get into position, anyway, and wait for your signal?”
    “Go ahead.”
    Hardie didn’t know if he should swat the mic stand to the side, try to snatch it out of her hands, or give up.
    “Are you really threatening to stab me with that thing?”
    “I won’t let you open this door.”
    “Look. I believe you. There is some kind of They out there. They are most definitely fucking with us. But I don’t want to sit here and wait for them to make a move. I used to be with the police. I think I can handle myself.”
    Even Hardie knew that last line sounded full of shit. Yes, he sort of used to be something like a cop. But that had been three long years ago. A lot of drinking and poor eating and general sloth had atrophied his muscles. He was slower, larger. His liver wasn’t talking to him anymore, and his heart gave him little friendly reminders every so often that he might want to get his ass up and move around a little. The mornings he felt good simply meant that he’d passed out before he could have any more to drink.
    So… I can handle myself ?
    Sure, Unkillable Chuck. Whatever you say.
    The fact remained—he wanted to look outside and see what the hell was going on. Maybe it wasn’t just this house but the whole block. Maybe World War III had kicked off, and he’d be able to see downtown L.A. go up in a flash of blinding light.
    But the girl was still stubbornly blocking his way.
    “You can’t handle these people. Believe me.”
    “Still nothing.”
    “Playing it safe, I guess. Okay, go head. Take it.”
    “On it.”
    Hardie heard a car engine rev, though at first he thought it was the power kicking back on. Then came the screech of tires, which quickly receded into the distance. Wait a second now…
    He went for the door handle. The girl held up the edge of the mic stand so that it pointed at his throat.
    “Don’t. I’m warning you.”
    Hardie said, “Let me look.”
    “Use a window.”
    Hardie didn’t want to get into another wrestling match with this psycho chick. She might end up stabbing that damned mic stand in another part of his body. His luck, his goddamned eye. So, fine, he’d open the front door later. Hardie sidestepped away from the girl and made his way to the wide-screen windows in the living room. He pulled aside the dusty curtains, then looked outside, and then immediately muttered,
    “Fuck me. ”
    Hardie had pulled up what… thirty minutes ago?
    His Honda Whatever was gone.

6
     
    A far-fetched story must be plausibly told,
so your nonsense isn’t showing.
    —Alfred Hitchcock
     
     
    T HE L ANE Madden production was supposed to be the easy one.
    After Mann received the green light, O’Neal observed the actress for a few days. He reported back, which only confirmed that Mann’s original idea was best: a “Sleeping Beauty”—late-night OD after a party. The narrative in Mann’s head went something like:
     
After a career slump and well-publicized descent into booze and drugs, and eventually a court-ordered alcohol-monitoring anklet, a B-list starlet is given a second chance with a part in a new indie prestige film. Feeling good, she decides to celebrate. She can’t handle it; she relapses hard. She ODs in her Venice Beach apartment.
     
    If all went well, Mann thought, the actress wouldn’t even wake up for her own death. She might feel a slight pinch somewhere in her dreams, and then she’d feel wonderful, and then she’d feel nothing at all.
    Mann had a three-man support team (O’Neal, A.D., Malibu) all set to move when SURPRISE—the actress got her ass up and went for a late-night drive up the PCH. They reported it to Mann, who told Malibu to follow her, see if any opportunities presented themselves. Malibu pushed for a Decker Canyon Road crash, but the thought made Mann uneasy. Too many wildcard factors—including the idea that the actress might survive a plunge