Chapter 11 Lana
Lana
For Lana, following Darnell Lascelles into the alley behind Vivien’s house with Griffin Hart behind her might be the most surreal part of this whole crazy experience.
“How did you find us?” Griffin asked, as Darnell unlocked a blue Lexus parked beside a chain-link fence.
“How does anyone find you? Where-Is-Griffin-Hart-dot-com. You got spotted at Will Rogers Beach and followed here. I figured if I was seeing this, these guys chasing you would be too.”
Griffin groaned, opening the front passenger door for Lana. “I didn’t see anyone.”
“Because you’re not trained to spot a tail.”
Griffin scoffed quietly.
Once they were in the car, Darnell offered Lana his hand. “Darnell,” he said. His hair was shorter than the afro he used to have, but his eyes were as sharp. Extra wrinkles just added to his aura.
“I know.” Lana shook his hand, feeling as starstruck as Sweetie.
“And you are?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m Lana!”
“You know who he is, but you hadn’t heard of me?” Griffin said from the back seat. Darnell started the engine and began to reverse.
“But he’s Darnell Lascelles!” she hissed, surreptitiously pointing at Darnell.
“I’m aware.”
“The poet!”
“The what?”
Darnell slammed on the brakes, jolting her backward. “You’ve read my poetry?”
“‘Dark leaves glisten, slivered mirrors hoarding shards of the veiled moon. In the shadows of Selene’s silvery breath, water finds water finds water, swelling glassy pockets of liquid night.’”
“She’s read my poetry!” Darnell said to Griffin.
“You write poetry? Also, can you drive, please?”
“Back in the day,” Darnell said, reversing out.
“How do you two know each other?” Lana said.
“Griffin and I were supposed to be in a movie, years ago. It didn’t happen, but we … bonded.”
“You’re an actor as well as a poet?” she said to Darnell.
“Damn, Griffin, is she for real?”
“Lana doesn’t watch TV,” Griffin explained. “Darnell here was on a relatively famous private detective TV show in the early nineties.”
“Relatively famous,” Darnell echoed wryly.
“He’s quite well known.”
“Quite well known.”
“Task at hand, please?” Griffin said, as Darnell veered wildly onto a cross street. “Did you find out anything about the phone numbers?”
“Gimme a chance. Had to come save your ass first.”
Lana turned to Griffin. “Wait, this is the P.I. you were telling me about?”
“You told her I was a private investigator?” Darnell said.
“No, I did not. She asked if you were a P.I. and I said ‘something like that.’ Darnell is what they call a method actor,” Griffin said to Lana. “He didn’t just play a P.I., he became one. He knows more about being a P.I. than most P.I.s.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Darnell’s tone suggested he would absolutely say it. “But I was taught by the best—I tailed L.A.’s finest P.I. as research, and we employed a consultant who’s still one of my best buddies.”
“Private investigators sometimes hire Darnell for stakeouts. He loves stakeouts—wears disguises and everything.”
“Thought about going into the business myself after the show folded, but figured I’d only get hired by fans and kooks. So, Lana, which poem is your favorite?”
“Oh, wow, that’s putting me on the spot.” Lana fanned herself. “Maybe ‘I Awake To You.’ Or ‘Jupiter in Transit.’” She sat straighter. “Oh, no, definitely ‘Monterey Prey.’”
“The girl knows quality!”
As Darnell took another turn like he meant it, Lana’s phone rang.
“The detective,” she said, checking the screen. “Should I tell her about the goons? Maybe she can send help?”
“You’re talking to a cop?” Darnell said. “Tell her nothing, unless you want it in the National Enquirer.”
“Stand down, Darnell. She could have intel that could crack the case. Ah, man, now I’m sounding like you.”
Lana answered, apologizing for interrupting the woman’s weekend.
“Nah, that’s all good,” the detective said. “I’m on my way in to work anyway—gotta get ahead on some paperwork. Listen, there’s a deli at the corner of South Fairview and Pioneer Street, off Santa Monica Boulevard. They do a great rugelach. Meet me there in an hour, and I can spare a few minutes.”
“We’ll be there, thanks.”
“We?”
“I have a … friend helping me out.”
Lana ended the call. Did she really just declare one of the most famous people in America a “friend,” in front of him? But then, he’d done the same earlier. It was now official, however unlikely—she was friends with a movie star.
“So, fill me in here,” Darnell said. “How long have you two been a thing?”
Lana and Griffin answered at once, a nonsensical tumble of denials.
“Oh, my bad,” Darnell said slowly and deliberately, obviously not buying it. He checked his mirrors, eyes narrowing. “Damn, these punks are following us.”
Lana and Griffin looked. A black SUV was a few cars behind.
“How?” Lana said. “They didn’t see us leave, did they?”
Darnell switched lanes so fast it gave Lana vertigo. As she was regaining her balance, he did it again, inviting multiple horn blasts. “You still got this phone of your sister’s?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you turned it on at the set, and they were there in a few hours?”
“You think they were tracking Vivi’s phone?” She pulled it out and looked at it, as if she’d be able to see a tracker—a red, flashing button or something. “That actually makes sense.”
“Gotta be how they found you then, and how they found you now.” Darnell sped up as a traffic light ahead turned red.
He didn’t make it but went through anyway.
Lana shrank into the seat. Behind them the SUV swerved onto the wrong side and followed, forcing an oncoming van to hit its brakes. More horns blared.
“You got your seatbelt on, Lana?” Griffin asked, looking behind. “Darnell did all his stunt driving on a process trailer.”
“A what?” Lana asked.
“Where they put your car on the back of a truck and film it to make it look like you’re driving.”
“I’ve been driving these roads since before you were born!” Darnell slipped into a gap that didn’t seem big enough for the car. Lana pressed her elbows into her sides. “I got an idea. There’s that celebrity breakfast the VP is speaking at, at the Wilshire Convention Center.”
“The VP of…?” Lana said.
“The United States? That Vice President? It’s a fundraiser for Griffin’s charity.”
“Not my charity,” Griffin said tightly.
“You set it up.”
“I wrote a check.”
“He gave them half his money,” Darnell said, glancing at Lana as if she was moderating the argument.
“Darnell…” Griffin said in warning. Lana guessed it was a secret.
“What charity?” she said. “And how does this help us?”
Darnell swung the steering wheel all the way to the left and then the right to overtake a car.
Lana braced against anything she could find.
“The Screen Equity Foundation. You know, anti-discrimination, anti-harassment, in the film industry. And it helps us because Griffin here is our ticket in. You’re on the list, right? ”
“It’s black tie! Besides, I donate so I don’t have to turn up and make bullshit small talk with sanctimonious rich people!”
“This coming from the richest person I know. Do it for Lana. Buy us time while I sort out this phone situation.”
Griffin swore, under his breath. “All good, we’ve lost them,” he said with palpable relief.
“We won’t lose them until we ditch this phone.”
“Should I chuck it out the window?” Lana asked.
“Not just yet. It could still prove useful. You see?” Darnell nodded to his mirror. “They’re back.” He swung into a side street, tires squealing, the back of the car swinging out. Lana clutched her seat.
“Still following,” Griffin warned.
Lana shrank down. “I really don’t want to get tased again.”
“On The Origin of Species,” Griffin said.
“Huh?”
“Dewey number—go.”
“I see what you’re doing, Griffin Hart. Not sure it’s going to work this time.”
“Are you saying you don’t know it? Did I find the chink in your librarian armor?”
“You’re a librarian?” Darnell said “librarian” with the awe other people reserved for “astronaut.”
“It’s a book by this guy called Charles Darwin,” Griffin continued. “Look, if you don’t know it, you don’t know it. We all have our—”
“Five-hundred seventy-six,” she whimpered as Darnell swerved, “point eight-two D.A.R.W.”
“Bet you can’t do Roget’s Thesaurus.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously!”
“Four-hundred twenty-three point-one R.O.G.E.”
“Get out—you know Dewey decimal numbers by heart?” Darnell jerkily overtook a cab and took a left into a side street, crossing in front of several cars. More honking.
“They’re still behind us,” Griffin said. “They’re even crazier drivers than you, Darnell.”
Darnell jammed on the gas. The glove compartment burst open, pelting Lana with a pair of reading glasses and several small boxes. She picked one up—a new phone, unopened.
“Are these burners?” she said, shoving them back.
“You care about your privacy, you shouldn’t use anything else.”
“Darnell even uses burner cars,” Griffin said.
“What does that mean—you throw them away?”
“I hire them.” Darnell tailgated a bus so close they had to be touching it. “A different car every couple of weeks. But also, I like fast cars.”
“I can see that. Is that a thing in your world—burner cars?”
“Not for Griffin. Hard to find rental cars with bulletproof glass.”
“You get shot at?” Lana went to turn to Griffin, but the G-forces pinned her—or perhaps it was the sheer terror of cars and stationary objects rocketing by.
“Not so much,” Griffin said, “but people have been known to throw rocks.”
“While shouting, ‘I love you,’” Darnell added.
“Go figure,” Griffin muttered.
Darnell pulled out to overtake the bus, then lurched the car to one side to avoid an oncoming van. The tires squealed. “If tens of thousands of folks adore you, statistically you’re gonna get one who’s psychotic enough to kill you.”
“I’d still take fans over paps any day. At least the fans are genuine. Even the crazy ones are genuinely crazy. Paps are just out to make a buck any way they can.”