The Hollywood outfits were in warehouse buildings and large storefronts on the west end of the district, between Fairfax and Gower. A concentration on Santa Monica
Boulevard allowed us to park and cover half a dozen businesses quickly. The mention of Thin Line Productions and Blood Walk evoked baffled stares from the rental clerks, most of whom looked like thrash-metal band castoffs.
On the seventh try, at a place on Wilcox called Flick Stuff, a bony, simian-looking young man with a massive black hair extension and a pierced lip slouched behind a nipple-high counter. Massively unimpressed by Milo’s badge. Maybe twenty-one; too young for that level of world-weariness. Behind him were double doors with an
EMPLOYEES ONLY sign. In the background, a female vocalist shouted over power chords.
Joan Jett or someone trying to be her. Big Hair wore a tight black T-shirt and red jeans. A slogan on the shut: “No Sex Unless It Leads to Dancing” His arms were white and hairless, more vein than muscle. Lumpy fibroid dope scars in the crooks said he’d probably had police experience.
Milo said, “Were you working here twenty months ago, sir?”
“Sir” made the kid smirk. “Off and on.” He managed to slouch lower.
Price lists were tacked to the surrounding walls. Day rates for sandbags, Western dollies, sidewalls, Magliners, wardrobe racks, Cardellini lamps, Greenscreens.
Surprisingly cheap; a snow machine could be had for fifty-five bucks.
“Remember renting to an outfit called Thin Line Productions?”
I expected a yawn, but Big Hair said, “Maybe.”
Milo waited.
“Sounds familiar. Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”
“Could you check your files, please?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Hair opened the double doors and disappeared, returned waving an index card, looking ready to spit. “Yeah, now I remember them.”
“Problems?” said Milo.
“Big problems.” Hair wiped his hands on the black T-shirt. The grubby steel ring through his upper lip robbed his expression of some of the injured dignity he was trying to project.
“What’d they do?” said Milo.
“Stiffed us fourteen grand worth.”
I said, “That’s a lot of equipment.”
“Not for Spielberg, but for assholes like that, yeah. We gave ’em everything. Mikes, props, fake blood, filters, misters, eye chamois, coffee makers, cups, tables, the fuckin’ works. The big items were a dolly and a couple of cameras- old gear, no studio would touch ’em, but still they cost. Supposed to be a ten-day rental. They had no history with us and it was obviously like a virgin voyage, so we demanded
double deposit and they gave us a check that we verified was covered. I got I.D., everything by the book. Not only didn’t they pay up, they fucking split with the equipment. When we tried to cash the deposit check, guess what?”
He bared his teeth. Surprisingly white. Behind them, something glinted. Pierced tongue. No click when he talked-the voice of experience. Were pain thresholds rising among the new generation? Would it make for a better Marine Corps?
I said, “What made you think it was a virgin voyage?”
“They putzed around, didn’t know what they were doing. What pisses me off is I guided them, man, told them how to get the most for their money. Then they go and screw me.”
“You got blamed?”
“Boss said I did the transaction, I was assigned to find ’em, try to recover. I couldn’t find shit.”
“You say ‘they,’ ” said Milo. “How many people are we talking about?”
“Two. Guy and a girl.”
“What’d they look like?”
“Twenties, thirties. She was okay-looking, blond hair- light blond, like Marilyn
Monroe, Madonna, when she was like that. But long and straight. Nice body, but nothing special. Okay face. He was tall, older than her, trying to play hip.”
“How old?” said Milo.
“Probably in his thirties. She was maybe younger. I wasn’t really paying attention.
She didn’t say much, it was mostly him.”
“How tall was he?” said Milo.
“About your size, but skinny. Not as skinny as me, but nothing like you either.”
Smirk.
“Hair color?” said Milo.
“Dark. Black. Long.”
“Like yours?”
“He wished, man. His was curly, like a perm, maybe went to here.” He touched his shoulders.
“Platinum blond for her,” said Milo, writing. “Long and curly for him. Maybe wigs?”