The Wolf of Los Angeles

[Chapter 38: The Gambler]

In Brentwood, in a luxurious mansion.

In a bid to show his determination to get back on track, Robert Downey Jr. splurged on hiring psychologist Judy Haverley. She had previously studied under the famous American psychic, astrologer, and prophet Jeanne Dixon.

"I've been really unlucky lately..." Robert Downey Jr. recounted the incidents of being caught cheating and getting fired from a film set, then asked, "How can I get back on track?"

Judy requested some of Downey's hair and performed an elaborate divination ritual. Downey stood with two of his friends, barely breathing for fear of interrupting her.

After what felt like ages, Judy concluded the ceremony and stated, "I found the root of the problem."

Curious, his hefty friend Cole leaned over to his bald companion Herman and muttered, "Is it really that magical?"

Downey shot a look their way, prompting them to immediately shut up.

At this point, Judy inquired, "Is there something you particularly wished to do this year but failed to accomplish?"

Downey pondered for a moment and replied, "I didn't get the lead role in Gothika."

Judy's question was quite clever; she had done her homework on Downey's situation beforehand. She immediately shook her head: "Earlier than that."

Downey began to recall, and after a few minutes, remembered something: "I once wanted to make someone jump off a building, but they didn't, and I was really upset about it. Does that count?"

Judy decided that this would be the issue they tackled. She took a moment, maintaining an air of mystery, and said, "That's exactly it."

To avoid complications, she added, "You must make this person jump on their own; you can't force them."

Downey responded, "Got it."

After collecting her fee, Judy took her leave.

...

After escorting her out, Downey sat in the lounge deep in thought, unable to remember exactly what the guy's name was and instead decided to call the director.

When the director got back to him with the name, he instructed Herman, "Herman, you need to go to Provo, Utah, and find a guy named Downing Ward. He's into extreme sports and has worked as a stuntman. Shouldn't be too hard to track him down."

Herman replied, "I'll gather my stuff and head out right away."

Downey then turned to Cole: "Cole, you have a wider network. Gather a few reliable guys to get ready; once Herman confirms the guy's location, grab him immediately."

He added, "Don't hurt him first; I want to see him jump off the building."

Cole said, "Finding people costs money; cash is better."

Downey marched inside: "Follow me." He opened a door: "There's some cash still in the cabinet; take what you need."

Cole assured him, "This is a small job; I'll handle it perfectly."

Downey left.

...

Cole entered the room, snagging over $1,000 in cash, and as he was leaving, he noticed a Rolex casually left on a corner of the cabinet, gathering dust since it had been untouched for so long.

Downey was a watch collector and couldn't even remember how many he had himself.

Cole knew Downey's house well; the security system was external, with no real safeguards inside. Glancing at the entrance to ensure no one was watching, he casually grabbed the watch and stuffed it into his pocket.

His movements were smooth, clearly not a first-time offender.

...

Downey walked into another room and saw Deborah sorting through their son's clothes. He asked, "How about we go out to dinner tonight?"

Deborah coldly responded, "Not interested."

Downey raised his hand, swearing, "I swear I won't touch that stuff again. I will go to the gym tomorrow to work out and quit drugs."

"I'll believe you one last time," Deborah replied, uninterested in going out to eat. "I hope you keep your word."

Frustrated by his wife's refusal, Downey returned to his entertainment room and pulled a plastic bag from the billiard case.

It was his last hurrah; he would quit tomorrow.

...

Cole drove out of Brentwood, heading to Big Daddy's Art Store in Westwood, parked, and walked toward the entrance.

Across the street, Hawke, wearing a wig and glasses and sporting a fake mustache, attentively watched Cole and said in an East Coast accent, "That's right; it's that fat one."

On a nearby bench, a nondescript man with a newspaper sat, so ordinary that anyone would easily overlook him; he was a born private investigator.

That man chimed in, "This guy is a gambler, often joining a private poker game, not the brightest bulb. He trades valuable items here repeatedly, and I've kept an eye on him since he's visited this place three times already."

"A gambler? That's good," Hawke pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. "I'll take care of this; you stay outside and watch. Don't overlook the other one."

The man nodded while taking the envelope and replied, "Don't worry, my assistant's got eyes on him."

Hawke adjusted his glasses, picked up his modified briefcase, crossed the street, and entered the art store.

After receiving photos taken by the private investigator, he stepped inside yesterday, already familiar with the layout.

A sales associate approached him: "Hello, how can I help you?"

Hawke spotted the fat guy in the watch section and remarked, "I'm looking for a decent second-hand watch -- Rolex or Omega will do."

The sales associate sized up Hawke's clothes and bag and understood he couldn't afford a top-quality item. He led him to the watch section: "Please come this way."

Hawke tucked his briefcase under his arm, ensuring it was aimed right at the hefty man, particularly at the watch being inspected by the appraiser.

The sales associate brought out several Submariner models and Omega watches, attempting to sell them to Hawke.

Hawke placed his bag on the counter, inconspicuously facing the hidden camera toward the fat guy.

He feigned considerable interest in the watches, haggling prices with the sales associate to facilitate filming.

Besides outright selling, the art gallery also offered rentals for those who couldn't afford them.

The fat man quickly obtained a check and left the store.

Hawke, justifying his departure with unsatisfactory prices, walked out as well, hopped into a Chevrolet, and followed the fat man's car.

...

Cole drove down Santa Monica Boulevard heading west, turning onto Third Street as he entered Santa Monica, parking in a vast lot.

He checked his digital watch; it was still early, so he could attend the poker game first before chasing down his target.

A Chevrolet pulled up nearby, parking on the other side.

As Cole got out, the Chevrolet passenger window rolled down, revealing a large photo.

The picture featured him with the female appraiser, holding a Cartier necklace.

Hawke pointed to the passenger seat: "Buddy, get in."

Cole wanted to run, but his legs felt weak; he obediently climbed into the front seat.

Hawke took out a stack of photos and handed them over.

Cole received them, flipping through one by one.

All the pictures featured him -- him selling jewelry and watches at Big Daddy's Art Store.

Hawke shattered whatever glimmer of hope remained: "I've done my homework on you. Aside from trailing Downey to rake in some cash, you don't have other sources of income. Those items aren't yours; if I'm not mistaken, they belong to your employer and your friends."

"Oh, by the way," he added, "you sold a Rolex just earlier."

Cole sagged, the photos dropping to the ground as he opened his mouth several times without making a sound.

Once Hawke saw him calm down, he said, "There's a poker game you're a regular at; Downey doesn't know, right?"

Cole's breathing quickened, and after a long pause, he asked, "What do you want?"

Hawke appeared like a movie villain, picking up a few photos off the console as he instructed, "You wouldn't want these making their way to the Downeys, would you? Don't overthink it; I have a guy. He has the negatives."

Cole realized where his actual value lay: "I will not betray Downey!"

"I'm not asking you to betray Downey," Hawke clarified, proceeding gradually. "I just want you to provide their whereabouts, like who they're meeting."

Cole was shocked: "You're a reporter?"

Hawke handed over a fake business card, ready in advance: "Anthony Murphy, a freelance journalist."

Cole felt a bit relieved: "Is that all you want?"

"Buddy, we live in a legal society." Hawke quickly replied. "America has laws; Downey's a celebrity -- if I really meant to harm him, I'd end up in trouble myself."

Cole was a gambler and just needed an excuse: "You promise?"

Hawke replied, "I swear to God under the Murphy name!"

"There has to be a deadline -- no longer than a week!" Cole insisted, not wishing to be controlled for too long. "Afterward, I want the photos and the negatives back."

Hawke said, "Okay, but I need ten days."

Considering ten days would fly by, Cole agreed: "Fine."

Hawke continued asking more questions, such as details about the stolen items and who they belonged to.

After a while, Hawke jotted down Cole's phone number and left a backup number for him.

Cole exited the car.

Hawke drove away from Santa Monica, pulled out the backup phone, and called the private investigator: "You can pull back now."

"Alright," the investigator replied. "My assistant followed Herman into the airport; he's set to fly to Provo, Utah."

"I understand," Hawke calmly hung up the phone.

He frowned slightly. What could Robert Downey Jr.'s henchman be doing in Provo? Was it related to Downing Ward?

Hawke retrieved his usual phone and called Edward, asking, "Did you get in touch with Jacqueline?"

Edward replied, "I called her; she's not up yet. We set a meeting for an hour from now at Hobart Mountain."

*****

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