CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 9) HOT DOG ON A STICK
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
21.
As a police officer unlocked the jail cell, Josh Penner looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. He’d been told that a bail hearing would not be held until the next day.
“This way,” said the jailor.
Penner smirked. Sonofabitch, they did it!
Another officer, manning the personal property officer, provided the movie star with his belongings: solid gold Tag Heuer wristwatch, crocodile wallet from Polo Ralph Lauren, keys, vintage leather belt, smart phone—and the laces from his sneakers.
“I’m leaving?” said Penner.
“The charges against you have been dropped. You must have friends in high places.”
“Yeah, I know.” Penner snickered. “You guys love to make examples out of celebrities.”
“Especially un-American fuck-ups like you,” said the officer.
Penner glared at him.
“Go ahead, take a swing at me instead of that scrawny photographer.” The officer smiled, confident he would make new charges stick like dog diarrhea to a carpet.
Penner felt his gorge rise but laughed it off. “See you in an Adam-12 re-run.”
“I hope to see you sooner than that.” The cop winked.
Penner could see he wasn’t going to get the last word with this chump, so he smirked again and turned to depart.
A few minutes later, sitting in his Ferrari, the actor keyed his cell phone and listened to messages. He hoped to have one from Jenny Jones of the FBI—couldn’t get her out of his mind. Instead CIA case officer Charles Mulberry buzzed his eardrum. I’m back in LA. Call me as soon as you get this.
Penner sighed, a deep breath. And he keyed a number Mulberry had made him memorize for a pay-as-you-go cell the CIA officer used only for contact with his prize asset.
Mulberry did not even say hello. “We need to meet this evening.”
“But it’s…” Penner checked his wristwatch. “What? Goddammit! Those bastards scratched my watch! I’m gonna sue their asses!”
“I know it’s late,” said Mulberry. He had just gotten off a plane from Washington and was passing Marina Del Rey. “But it’s important.”
“I’m grungy, need a shower,” said Penner. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“No. There’s a parking lot in Muscle Beach, near the pier, next to Hot Dog on a Stick. You know it?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you be there in 30 minutes?”
“I suppose. This better be good.”
“If it weren’t you’d still be sitting in the clink.”
Thirty minutes later, Mulberry rounded into the odd car park, down an offbeat road that dead-ended on the oceanfront promenade. He parked, turned off his engine.
A few minutes later a red Ferrari pulled in and parked alongside.
Mulberry gestured with his hand for Penner to join him.
“I’m not leaving Eileen unattended in this place,” said Penner, referring to his favorite set of wheels.
“I can’t drive with you in that. It attracts too much attention.”
“Compromise,” said Penner. “Let’s both get out and walk around.”
Mulberry quickly scoped the environment. No one around at this hour. The only action was past 10;30 was Pacific Park on the Santa Monica Pier nearby, and even that was winding down. He got out.
Penner joined him and lit a cigarette. “Feels good to be free.”
Mulberry studied his charge. A thank you would be nice. The CIA case officer was not in the mood for small talk, having spent eleven hours on a plane flying to and from Washington. And so he got right down to it. “That guy you spoke with in Paris, Tom Richardson?”
Penner nodded.
“The French are holding him. We need to put pressure on France to release him.”
Penner blew three smoke rings. “Why?”
Mulberry ignored the question. Penner did not have a need to know why. “There has been no news in the media about Richardson being held incommunicado in Paris. We want to give this a media profile. The French will not like media attention, and they will be compelled to release Richardson before they have time to resort to interrogation.”
“Okay. So what am I supposed to do?”
Mulberry explained what CIA’s top brass wanted Penner to do.
The movie star listened, nodding, absorbing. “And they want me to do this when?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow.”
“You want that with fries?
“It’s urgent.”
Penner threw his stub to the ground, stamped it out. “No problem.”
Mulberry breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you want me to go through it again?”
“No. Got it. Anything else?
“Have you heard anything more from that FBI agent?”
Penner smirked. “I was locked up all afternoon—remember?”
“We would appreciate if you let us deal with the Bureau,” said Mulberry.
Penner shrugged. “She’s cute. Free country.”
Mulberry shook his head. “You don’t want to get in the middle of a CIA-FBI turf war.”
The actor smirked. “Sounds like I already am.”
22.
The academy award winning movie star put on his best surly expression as he stood at a microphone before a hastily called media conference in the Beverly Hilton Hotel, an iconic showbiz gathering venue in the heart of Beverly Hills.
Everyone in the media had been invited—except TMZ, whose intrepid reporters Natalie Ruvo and Bradley Bish were forced to remain outside.
Bish had earlier that morning filed a civil complaint against the actor for assault and battery, demanding half a million dollars in compensation.
Anyone and everyone in the French press were summoned to the media event. They had been told in advance that Josh Penner’s announcement had something to do with their country, nothing more.
Penner glared at the crowd of 40-plus reporters and photographers, not his favorite sort of people.
“I recently began negotiations with an American named Tom Richardson to make a movie about his situation,” Penner announced. F”or those of you who haven’t heard of Richardson, he left the CIA under a dark cloud and moved to Paris. And now I can’t reach him.” He paused, then leaned on the lectern, mustering feigned outage. “I have reason to believe my friend Tom is being held against his will by French police, even though no charges have been filed against him.” He paused. “They are probably holding him due to pressure from the United States and our rabid White House policies. I want to call on France, a country that prides itself on liberty and justice, to release Richardson. And if they don’t, I’m hoping that you, the media, will demand answers from French politicians.” Penner paused. “I’ll take a few questions—only a few.” Penner pointed to a reporter from Variety.
“How do you know this?” asked the astute scribe.
“I always research my roles,” said Penner. “And sometimes I stay in touch with people who help me with my research. So I have a number of good sources in all kinds of places.”
Even Charles Mulberry, listening to the press conference on live radio, was impressed by Penner’s off-the-cuff answer. For if Penner’s relationship with Richardson were to proceed past this point, the savvy Richardson would also want answers.
“Have you bought an option to Richardson’s story?” asked a scribe from Hollywood Reporter. “And if you have, is it to produce a movie or star in it?”
“Not yet,” said Penner, quickly added. “We’ll see.”
A reporter for the Los Angeles Times jumped to his feet. “Then what is this other than a transparent attempt to embarrass the United States on the heels of your visit with Hugo Chavez in Venezuela?”
Penner’s lips tightened as he shook his head, glaring at the LA Times guy. “I don’t know why I even bother talking to you ignoramuses,” he said, “That’s it, I’m done.” He turned on his heel and darted out a back door.
Mulberry listened to an uproar of new questions shouted at Penner’s backside. Then he counted his teeth and contemplated unemployment.