Stealing Sturgis Page 3

  “And?” Lee was getting impatient.

  “And, you dang fool, they drive some of the world’s most expensive bikes there, just to show them off. Damn movie stars don’t even know the value of money, their ass is riding on a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “A hundred thousand?” Lee asked, incredulous.

  “You got it,” Randy said. “And that’s for starters. They like to show off like everyone else, except they’ve got the money to do it, so they bring a couple of extra bikes with them on a trailer. Every one of them a collectible or otherwise pricey.”

  Lee rubbed his jaw, his hand rasping over a day-old beard. “All right. That’s a nice story. What’s it got to do with us?”

  Randy grinned. “Everything, bud. I got the brawn, you got the brains. Which is to say, more directly, that I’m the ex-con and you know your way around cars. And bikes.”

  Lee looked at him, squinting. “What’re you saying, Randy?”

  “What do you think I’m saying? You and I are going to go to Sturgis, relieve those know-nothing movie stars of their rides, and come back to Virginia to sell them.”

  Lee laughed, shaking his head. He was pacing now. “I thought that’s where you were going with this. How the hell do you expect us to pull off something like that?”

  Randy moved with him, keeping eye contact. “Lee, you remember how many bikers I said go to Sturgis? Five hundred thousand. Half a million people. And do you know when they leave? The very last day. Ninety-nine percent of them come from halfway across the country—they ain’t going to cut the party short.”

  Lee said nothing. Randy held his hands in a square, like he was framing a picture.

  “Now, imagine just how confusing it must be to have, oh, only a couple hundred thousand cars, trailers, bikes, campers, you name it, all pouring out of Sturgis, all on the same day. A goddamned army on the roads. You think the cops are going to stop every Tom, Dick, and Harry on a bike? Hell, they probably take the week off. I would.”

  Lee kept shaking his head, but had stopped laughing. “God, Randy, you’re crazy. It’s not the how, it’s the why I’m worried about. I don’t want to steal nothing from honest folks.”

  “Honest?” Randy shouted. “Lee, you’ve been honest all your life and you can’t make a fourteen-hundred-dollar mortgage payment each month. There’s one peckerwood that goes there…Jason Ford, an actor. You know how much he makes per movie? Five million dollars. You think he’d even notice if one of them bikes was gone? He’s probably bored with it anyway, hoping somebody would take the damn thing so he can buy a new one. We’d be doing the guy a favor.”

  Lee was quiet and still, hands on his hips, looking down at the ground. Randy took a step closer and put a hand on Lee’s shoulder.

  “Look, Lee, I know it’s hard thinking about doing wrong. Hell, I’m not one to talk about morals. But I know things ain’t always black and white. You stay home, you work your ass off, treat people right, and you know what? In twelve months, maybe less, there’s going to be a man in a suit standing at your door with the sheriff right behind him. He’ll hand you a letter, put a sign that says Foreclosed across the garage door, and you’ll have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises. All that hard, honest work will have been for nothing and ain’t nobody gonna care that Lee Baylor was pure as the driven snow. They’ll just cluck and shake their heads and say, ‘Damn shame about poor Darla Baylor’s boy.’”

  Lee said nothing for a moment, then said, “I’d care.”

  Randy shrugged. “Maybe so. But that won’t stop the sheriff from showing his face and tacking a notice to your door.”

  Lee looked heavenward for a minute. “What would I tell Raylene?”

  Randy thought about it. “You’ve got your Harley. Tell her we’re taking it there to sell it. It’s old, might be worth something.”

  Lee scrubbed his face with his hands. “Hell, Randy, I don’t know. Let me think on it for a while.”

  Chapter Four

  “Holy crap,” Jason Ford said, staring at the paper in his hands. “I’m broke.”

  The paper was a thirteen-page document he knew was coming, but had refused to believe in until Shawn had put it on the top of his mail. No doubt Mel had called him and told him to do it, the son of a bitch. Jason had been able to ignore the certified letter for three days already.

  “Opening other people’s mail is a federal crime,” he yelled over his shoulder, not sure if Shawn could hear him. Jason was in his large walk-in closet, its four hundred square feet larger than many actors’ apartments on Sunset or, God forbid, in Simi. Occupying a large chunk of the space was a pile of black leather—pants, chaps, jackets, and gloves, tossed there after Jason had spent most of the morning trying on different ensembles of biker gear and discarding all as unworthy.

  “Not if they pay you to do it,” Shawn sang back from the other side of the wing, instead of using the intercom. The house was big enough that Jason had had the intercom put in just to find Shawn, even though his assistant always seemed to know where Jason was, anyway. Conversely, if Shawn didn’t want to be found, the intercom didn’t help. There was a speaker and console in every room of the house, including the bathrooms and the larger closets.

  Jason muttered and studied the letter again. It was from Coastal Pictures, Ltd., formally alerting him to the fact that they were withdrawing any and all support forthwith from Jason’s latest film project, Billy Budd: Gentleman Sailor. The letter was filled with a strange mixture of legalese and Dear John regrets, including a scribbled note from Hal Statler, Coastal’s director of operations: J- Sorry we couldn’t work this one out. Keep sending them along, though; you still got it!

  “Got it? Got what?” Jason yelled. “Got fucking what, Hal? What I’ve got is seven private backers who want either a movie or their money. And they’re not getting the money back, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Did you call me or are you talking to yourself again?” Shawn called from downstairs this time.

  “Shut up!” Jason yelled, crumpling the letter and throwing it out of the closet. It hit the door frame instead and bounced back at him, rolling to a stop at his feet. He looked at for a second, then stomped on it with his large black boot.

  The hell with it. He’d worry about it some other time. He’d been worrying about enough lately, though lately was turning into about three and a half years now. The trouble had started when Navajo had gone down the tubes. It had been such a no-brainer. It had everything: he was the hot leading man, he’d introduced Becky as the hot leading girl, there was a decent plot, plenty of time with shirts off and long, flowing hair, Southwestern scenery, and enough scalping, gunshots, and soft-core sex to get anyone’s rocks off. They even told the story from the Indian’s point of view for political correctness. The studio had told him the timing was bad, but he’d had enough clout—then—to get the thing released anyway. It bombed. How was he supposed to know historical fiction was out and spaceships were in? Again. He wished Lucas would just go ahead and die already.

  He didn’t know what had gone wrong. He was forty-four, in the prime of his acting life. Maybe he couldn’t play the lead in a teenage beach movie, but who wanted that right now, anyway? He was a Hollywood veteran, acting since he was seven years old. He’d starred in a peanut butter commercial for his first gig. Voted one of America’s sexiest men alive two or three years running a couple—well, five—years ago. Everything he touched should’ve turned to gold.

  Maybe it had been the transition from acting to directing. But no, he’d had success with just about every film he’d been in that he’d also directed. If you didn’t count Navajo. Maybe that was it: the actors he’d been saddled with must’ve been weak; everyone knew that no amount of direction could save a film doomed by bad actors. He’d have to look into that for the next one, do a better job of casting.

  He sighed. Next one? What next one? He told himself to be realistic. You not only have seven investors locked in to the latest sinking ship, you’re the
eighth. He tried not to think about how much of his own money had gone into Billy Budd: Gentleman Sailor. Six million? Seven?

  The intercom buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. He hated that buzzer. He’d have Shawn change it to something nice, like a chime. He pressed the Talk button.

  “Yes, Shawn?”

  “Mr. LaPorte on the phone for you.”

  “Mel’s on the line. Great, just great. Okay, I’ll take it.” Jason waited for the click that told him Shawn had, reluctantly, hung up the extension. “Mel? Mel, you there?”

  “I’m here, Jason. You don’t have to scream.” Mel’s raspy, mouth-breathing voice came over the speaker.

  “What’s up?”

  Mel sighed. “Did you get that letter from Coastal?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Did you tell Shawn to open it?” Jason grabbed a leather jacket from the floor and gave it another try.

  Sigh. “Yes, I did. You can’t run away from it, Jason. I’m your agent, not your…”

  “…Jewish fairy godmother. Yeah, I know, Mel. I was getting to it. I was hoping to snag Hal for lunch, try to bypass the brass at the top, all that legal bull, get a deal going.”

  “That’s not going to happen. Not when they send it certified. And not when they contact the other investors.”

  That stopped Jason cold. “They what? They can’t do that—it’s illegal.”

  Mel said, “Hold on a sec,” and blew his nose. “Friggin’ Santa Ana winds have my sinuses in an uproar. Okay, the thing of it is, Coastal Pictures Limited didn’t contact any of them. An unnamed person posing as a journalist for an unnamed publication called and asked them what they thought about preproduction on the film being stopped.”

  “Who would do that?” Jason asked.

  “Not sure, but my money would be on your buddy Hal Statler. Or his secretary.”

  “Hal wouldn’t do that,” Jason said, frowning. “Why would he do that?”

  Sigh. “Again, it’s just a guess on my part, but I imagine it’s because Coastal is trying to find backers for their new project, to be announced next week.”

  “What is that?”

  “Starmoon Warriors is the working title,” Mel said.

  “Shit!”

  There was a long silence on both ends. Mel finally spoke. “You still going to that motorcycle gang thing?”

  “Sturgis? Yeah, I was just packing for it.”

  “Becky going with you?”

  “Yeah, she’d better. Most of the boys are going to see her, not me.”

  “I don’t know why you go to that thing.” A pause. “Why do you go?”

  “It’s fun, Mel. These are real people. They remind me that being a movie star isn’t everything.”

  “Uh-huh. Why don’t you fly? Must take a week to get there.”

  “Because that’s the point, Mel. It’s a rally. You ride your bike there. If you could fly, it would be Atlantic City.”

  “All right, whatever floats your boat. Look, about that other thing—”

  “I know, I know. I have to think of something. Give me some time and I’ll get back to you.”

  Mel was quiet and Jason waited for the inevitable lecture. But Mel seemed to decide against it this time. “Okay, Jason, call me if you need anything.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Mel.”

  After the call, Jason figured things couldn’t get any worse, so he just put it out of his head. It had worked for him before. He thought briefly about dropping the trip to Sturgis, but dismissed the thought immediately. What was two weeks going to matter? If he was sunk, he was sunk. If not, well, some of the best ideas had come from road trips. Maybe some flash of brilliance would strike him on the way there.

  Besides, Sturgis was a tradition now. He liked it. He felt relaxed when he was with bikers, something he couldn’t say about any other time. There were the occasional autograph hounds and paparazzi and so forth, but, for the most part, everyone at Sturgis was having a great time and acting like it. He’d be able to kick back, party like he was twenty again, and escape reality for a week.

  The buzzer did its thing again and he walked over to the intercom and mashed the button. “Yes?”

  “Becky here to see you.”

  “Okay, send her up. Wait, why am I telling you this? She has a key.” Shawn was really getting on his nerves.

  Becky found Jason kicking the pile of leathers out of the way so he could get a clear look at the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  “Hi, JJ,” she said, coming over and giving him a kiss. He kissed her distractedly and turned back to the mirror.

  She wrinkled her nose. “There are, like, seventeen cows here.” Jason posed in front of the mirror. He had on a black leather jacket with fringe running from wrist to shoulder, black leather chaps over worn and tattered jeans, huge black boots, and a giant silver belt buckle studded with turquoise.

  “How do I look?” he asked without turning around.

  “Honestly?” she said. “Ridiculous. Your ass looks good in those chaps, but the rest of it looks like you mugged that guy from the Village People. Or a costume store.”

  “You mean, like, too new?” Jason asked, worried. “I could get Shawn to distress it if it looks like I just bought it, I guess. Run it over a couple of times with the car or something.”

  “No, I mean, like, too dorky. Does anyone really wear this stuff?”

  “Yes, Becky, everyone in Sturgis wears this. And it looks new because I can only wear them once a year. I can’t exactly arrive at the Oscars wearing chaps and a helmet.”

  She sauntered around the room, flicking shirts along the rack, poking around, inspecting his dozens of pants, tops, and shoes. “I told you, it’s not just because it looks new. What does your belt buckle say? It’s got a Confederate flag on it, for Christ’s sake.”

  He looked down at his own waist. “It says ‘Rebel Pride’ on the top and ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ along the bottom. It’s from Georgia.”

  Becky sighed and sat down cross-legged by the pile of unworthy leathers. “That’s what I mean, Jason. You’ve never been south of New York, let alone to Georgia. ‘Don’t Tread On Me’?”

  “We shots parts of Navajo in Arizona,” he said.

  “That’s the Southwest. It doesn’t count. And we shot most of the scenes in Ventura, anyway,” she reminded him. “It just looks fake, is all.”

  Jason adjusted his t-shirt under the jacket; it was a little tight across his stomach and made him look a touch fat. “Well, fake is as fake does. We’re leaving in a week, so I hope you’ve got chaps and a jacket, too.”

  “Jay-son,” she said, drawing it out. “I don’t want to go to this stupid thing. And I sure don’t want to ride the whole way there on the back of a bike.”

  “Sorry, sweetie, you’re going. It’s the only thing I have to look forward to all year. Besides my residuals.”

  “So now you’re my dad? Telling me what I have to do?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m old enough, but hopefully you and your daddy never did the things together that we’ve done.”

  “Gross,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I still don’t want to go.”

  “Goddammit, Becky,” Jason exploded. He turned around to face her for the first time. “Did I or did I not discover you waitressing at a burger joint in Woodbridge, New Jersey? Would you or would you not be making four dollars an hour plus tips right now if it hadn’t been for me? Instead of having starred in two hit movies and on track to make a million dollars a movie? Jesus Christ, you’d think I was asking you to have my kid. All I want you to do is drive to a huge party, have a good time, and drive back. Is that too much to ask?”

  Stunned, Becky sat there, eyes wide. Jason never talked to her like that, hardly even raised his voice except to yell at Shawn, which was just playing around anyway. She was so surprised by the outburst her eyes teared and she blinked two or three times.

  Jason glared at her for a second, then relaxed. He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and walked over to her. The
stiff leather chaps made a creaking noise as he slid to his knees. He grabbed her shoulders. “Okay, don’t cry. I’m sorry. This trip is just a lot of fun for me. I’ve been going to it for ten years now. I’d like you to be there with me. Can you do that for me? If you hate it, you don’t have to come back next year, okay? I promise.”

  Becky nodded, wiping tears away with a long-nailed finger. Jason kissed her on the top of her head and struggled to his feet with another creaking sound. He turned to the mirror again. “Great. Get your outfit from Jackie’s down on Rodeo. You’ll look good in black. I can see it now. As good as you did in Goodbye, My Dominatrix!”

  Becky wandered around the room, as if looking for a distraction, then picked up a glove with an inscription that read “Beach Biker: The Original Tan-Thru Biker Glove!”

  Jason, remembering the letter from Coastal and his diminishing bank account, said to her, “Oh, and hon? Could you have Mimi reserve the house for us there? I’m just swamped between now and when we leave. Talk to Shawn before you leave—he’ll get Mimi the info.”

  Becky sniffled a little. “Okay. What’s it cost?”

  “Cost? What do you care? Mel won’t let a director even talk to you for less than a million a picture. Pretty soon your tush is going to be worth three or four, easy.”

  “Yeah, okay, I guess. I’ll talk to Mimi about it.”

  “Cool, you do that,” Jason said, distantly. Should he tuck the chaps into the boots? He didn’t notice Becky leave as he first tucked, then untucked them.

  Untucked. Definitely.

  Chapter Five

  Lee and Randy didn’t talk any more about the idea that afternoon. With the Bronco waiting on parts, they were able to finally finish up with a Toyota Camry, though they both nearly lost fingers in the process. Lee took a break to call Lucinda Howell, the owner. They’d already agreed on the price when she’d brought the car in. When he called, though, she started to ask all kinds of questions: What work had he done, exactly? Did he really have to do all of that? Where did he buy his parts and why’d they cost so much? Couldn’t he find things cheaper someplace else? Well, had he tried Walmart?