Midnight on the Sea

By Eric Levenberg

UfOs are widely reported to be darting above Los Angeles. And a movie star is missing.

LASD Detective, Rock Miller is assigned to the case. Rocks suspects include a Native American psychic named Jalama, who runs a marijuana dispensary, a CIA agent turned film producer, and the captain of Mysterium Magnum, the yacht on which Luke was last seen.

Jalma introduces Rock to her eccentric friends which includes a college professor, comedian, television star, and a film distribution executive, all of whom have strong opinions about the Missing Luke Case. The trail of clues lead Rock right into the underbelly of Hollywood and the heart of the whole UFO puzzle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Levenberg
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463167908

Book preview

Chapter One

Luke’s face was perspiring. The 1000 watt key light made his makeup roll over his thin upper lip and go into his mouth.

He held onto the rail of Mysterium Magnum, while the 60 foot yacht pitched and dipped in the choppy Pacific.

Luke looked up at Orion and the Dog Star in the Southwest sky. The acrid taste of the makeup made him silently curse Ashley. She was the young, brash, pretty and flirty makeup artist, who three hours ago over applied the stuff onto his deeply lined but still handsome face. She was also the spoiled niece of Marvin Max Bromberg, who to date produced more Oscar and Golden Globe winning pictures than any other, and made himself more than a billion bucks in between acceptance speeches. And it was because she was Bromberg’s niece Ashley didn’t need to worry about doing a sloppy job on a 47 year old alcoholic star—who for the past five years was considered by the suits, to be prematurely past his prime, and worse, not bankable.

Well, the suits were partly right. Lately he wasn’t bankable, at least not when the picture’s budget exceeded $1 million. So for the last five years Luke Winnick starred in 18 low budget and ultralow budget films, all in the action and horror genres. The pictures were not widely screened, yet earned him fees ranging from $50,000 and $80,000 each. Damn good money, compared to what most people made but nowhere near the multi-millions—up to $12 million he made for each picture he starred in from ‘92 through ‘07. After ‘07, just like the economy, his career took a sharp turn downward.

Waiting for the camera to roll, he cerebrated over the potential merits of Mutineer, the picture he was now starring in. For starters, the budget was north of $8 million, still low by studio standards, but much higher than what he had grown used to. And there was the buzz over Simon Stevenson, the picture’s 31 year old director.

The buzz was loud enough so Simon didn’t feel like he needed to be directing this pick-up scene on Mysterium Magnum, out on the rough and cold sea. Principal photography was finished. Simon decided to let the Second Unit Crew get the last few pick-up shots of Luke, and the stuntmen, which would give him everything he needed to bring the picture into post.

Right now Simon and John Summerstone, the bankable star, were just a few knots away, warm and cozy with two hotties in a booth at Chez Jay, drinking Kettle One and cranberry juice. Like a lot of gorgeous girls in town, these two were aspiring actors—the word actress went out with the last millennium. Simon held them spellbound with his knowledge of cinema. John captivated them by being John, a legendary actor’s actor.

Mysterium Magnum was moving at 18 knots per hour in the dark ocean outside of the Marina.

The shoot was being directed by Keith Kline, a Second Unit Director. He was 27, tall, thin and had a face full of zits.

Kline needed to get two more shots, both showing Luke’s character, George being thrown off of the bow by John’s character, Jimmy, who was for the most part off camera. The on deck blocking allowed John not to be onboard. A tall well-built stuntman, Jerry, 40, who had a shaved head like John, would stand in for him and throw George overboard.

After Kline got the close shots he needed of Luke, the plan was to have another stuntman, Serge, 25, who like Kline, was tall and thin and had a face with its fair share of zits—partly camouflaged by Ashley’s imperfect make-up, stand in for Luke. And shoot him falling into the ocean, as George meeting a frigid death.

The crew was sparse. Aside from Kline, there was just Kevin, a well-built Camera Operator, who had an ARRI Amira camera mounted on his shoulder, and Mike, a young wiry assistant camera man who wore a red Angels baseball cap. His job was to pull focus and make sure Luke and Kevin didn’t fall into the ocean.

No dialogue tonight, so no need for the sound dudes with their Sonic Design Recorders and boom and lava-leer mics. A young PA, Joey, was on board to mark the shots and handle the lights.

Nick McDougal, 50, the ruddy faced captain, with thick blond hair, and a build which justified his membership fees with the LA Sports Club, stood at the stern guiding Mysterium Magnum on a starboard tack. His job was made easier by the yacht’s electronically controlled mainsail and jibs.

A wave slammed against the hull, splashing water onboard. A few salty droplets pelted the ARRI Amira.

Alright, let’s get this shot before the sea kills the camera, Keith said. Roll camera.

Camera rolling, Kevin said.

Luke stepped onto his mark. Joey stood in front of the camera and said, Mutineer, Scene 73, Shot 9, Take 1. He clapped the marker.

Action, Keith said.

Jerry approached Luke—his huge right palm extended out towards Luke’s face, and gently grabbed him by the neck. Luke got a whiff of something on Jerry’s palm. The scent reminded him of heroin.

Luke saw a silver disc soar beneath Orion’s belt and wondered if his friend was the pilot. His knees buckled, as he blacked out.

Mike let go of the camera, and grabbed the star by his jacket collar—making damn sure he didn’t fall into the ocean.

Detective Rock Miller of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department was having a bad dream. A muscular kid with a swastika tatted onto his shaved head, had a sawed off shotgun in Rock’s face. The kid told Rock he had to kill him, so he wouldn’t send him back to Soledad.

I’m not the judge, Rock said, but if you put the shotgun down, I’ll send you to Disneyland instead.

The kid smirked and pulled the trigger.

Rock awakened, sweating but glad to be alive. The light streaming through the indigo curtains stung his eyes. The sun was rising over Santa Monica. He could hear the Monday morning traffic as he rolled out of bed and made his way into the bathroom— to piss and brush his teeth.

In the mirror he saw a handsome face atop a wiry build. His olive complexion made him look 10 years younger than his 47 years. He had thick brown hair, a touch of grey in the temples, piercing hazel eyes and a thin upper lip over a full lower lip. His large Roman nose usually left him undecided as to whether or not he had a pleasing profile.

Rock made his way into the bedroom where he put on his black Adidas sweats and shoes. He slid his aviator sunglasses onto his forehead, stepped out of the bedroom onto the oak floor of his sparsely appointed living room—just a mahogany leather couch, salon chair and oak coffee table over a Navajo rug, leaving a lot of open floor.

A large marble bust of Brian Wilson sat on a burrow wood stand near the fireplace. Brian’s marble fingers played on a marble keyboard, the base of the sculpture.

Rock spent most of the summer of 2019 working on it. Chiseling in his backyard quarry to the sounds of Wilson’s synthesizer accompanied by the Beach Boys harmonies, wafting out of the mini speakers hung from the eaves, helped him endure missing Marcia, his girlfriend since five springs ago.

She looked like a red headed movie star, and was exuberantly joyful before being diagnosed with ovarian cancer, which spread to her liver. The cancer turned her face ghost-white and the chemo made her hair fall out. She had turned 43 just a week before she drew her last breath. And a month and a half later Boomer, Rock’s gentle Golden Retriever, passed away. It was a one-two punch that made last year a toughie.

Rock winked at Brian who seemed to smile back at him, and stepped out the front door of his small Spanish-style house. He opened the garage door, and made his way to his silver Cannondale mountain bike, wedged between the wall and a crème colored 68 Mustang GT convertible—his first and as far as he was concerned last car. He bought the car in mint condition back in 1991, when he was just 18. It had a 302 cc engine, a four speed manual transmission with a stiff clutch, and an electric powered canvas top.

He usually opted to drive the Mustang, rather than the late model black Crown Vic, he drove now and then, courtesy of LASD. Though, the sad truth was the Crown Vic could outrace the Mustang on any street, day or night.

Rock bought the mountain bike a few years ago. It was a toss-up what he got more joy out of, the Mustang, or the bike—at the moment he was leaning towards the bike, as he rolled it out onto the driveway.

He pedaled north to Montana Ave, and rode to the window of a bakery called Sweet Lady Jane. He got off of the bike, leaned it against the window, and stepped inside.

At the counter he ordered a coffee and an oatmeal blueberry muffin from a barista with long dirty blonde hair and an easy smile. She wore a Guatemalan pullover, looking like she just stepped out of a time machine that had transported her from 1971.

Rock carried his breakfast to a corner table next to the window. He had just a couple sips of coffee when Jamie, a woman he spent the night with six weeks ago, strolled in. She was pretty with large dark brown eyes, thick brown hair and a new pair of saline implants, inserted with just enough skill so they didn’t make her breasts look 100 percent fake.

Good morning Detective, she said.

Hey you. He smiled sheepishly as she brushed by him on her way to the counter. She ordered a coffee and stepped towards Rock. He gestured for her to join him.

"Haven’t seen you at Father’s Office, lately," she said, referring to the pub down the block, where she tended bar.

Ah, I didn’t want you to feel like I was stalking you.

I wasn’t looking for another hit and run.

I wasn’t looking for one either, Jamie, Rock said. I just figured you’d be better off not getting messed up by my mess.

Rock, I already knew you were a cop before I took you home.

I prefer to think of myself as a detective, but point taken.

They sipped their coffees without talking. Rock’s iPhone started to play the ringtone of Chuck Berry’s Promised Land. He grabbed the phone. Hello

Good morning Rock, a raspy smoker’s voice said.

Good morning, Cap.

I have a Missing Persons case for you, Captain Nolan said.

Who’s missing?

Rock this one’s sort of delicate.

How so, Cap?

The Missing Person is Luke Winnick.

Rock raised an eyebrow. How long’s he been missing for?

Since Thursday night, according to his girlfriend, Nolan said. She said Winnick was on location at the Marina Thursday night and was supposed to meet her later.

When’d she call in the report?

Early this morning, Nolan said. I had Parsons go over to her place to pick up the key to Winnick’s house.

Where’s he live?

Point Dume. Parsons already poked around the house.

I’d like to go there and take a peek.

Parson’s taking another report, Nolan said, on PCH, near Topanga. When he finishes, I’ll have him swing by your house and give you the key and alarm codes.

I’m on my bike, Cap, Rock said. If he gets there before me, tell him to put it all in my mailbox.

You got it, Rock.

Cap, you sure Winnick’s missing and not just out playing?

I don’t know, but I expect you to find out by the end of the day.

I got my racing sweats on.

Good. The press is gonna be all over me, Nolan said, any second. Come in tomorrow at nine, and let me know what you find out.

You bet, Cap. Rock put the iPhone on the table.

Jamie smiled. Good luck finding Luke, Rock.

Rock looked at her curiously. How’d you know?

"Jalama came into Father’s Office last night."

Jalama?

Luke’s girlfriend, Jamie said.

Rock raised his eyebrow. What’d she say?

She said she couldn’t find Luke.

Maybe she couldn’t find him, Rock said, because he didn’t want her to.

She said it crossed her mind, Jamie said, but I don’t think she thought so.

Rock sipped his coffee and raised his eyebrows.

Jalama also said she and Luke RSVP’d, Jamie said, to attend Simon Stevenson’s party the other night.

Simon Stevenson, Rock said. "He directed Stolen Smiles."

He’s directing another movie, starring Luke, Jamie said.

It’s been a while since Winnick’s been in a major movie.

At least five years.

Maybe Stevenson is trying to do the same thing for him, Rock said, Tarrantino did for Travolta and tried to do for David Carradine.

"Didn’t your captain tell you about the new film?

"No. I suspect he expects me to tell him about it."

Sounds like a lazy captain.

Rock grinned. He liked Jamie. He just wasn’t crazy about her, and as far as he could tell, never would be. So he thought she’d be better off finding another dude to play with, which he guessed wouldn’t be too hard. Let’s just say he has certain expectations of me, Rock sipped his coffee. What’s Jalama’s last name?

Castillo.

You know her number?

Yeah.

Would you mind giving it to me?

Jamie shrugged, pulled out her Galaxy, and scrolled for Jalama’s number.

I don’t feel great about it, she said, but I know you can get it anyways.

You’re right, Rock said.

Jamie made a face and gave up the number.

Chapter Two

Rock pedaled to 24 Hour Fitness on 2 nd Street. Nicole, a cute girl at the front desk always let him stash his bike inside against the front window.

Have a great work out, Rock.

Thank you, darling.

Rock went straight to the bench press. He placed a 45 lb. plate on each side of the bar, got on the bench and did 20 reps. He got up, added 35 lb. plates to each side, got back on the bench and did 10 reps. He got up, took off the 35’s, got back on and did another 20 reps. He got up and added the 35’s and did another 10 reps.

His best friend and ex-partner Barry Lebby got Rock into the light-heavy-light-heavy-light system of lifting 17 years ago. Rock stuck with it ever since, though when Barry was working out with him he could press two 45s on each side of the bar 10 times.

He told himself he’d have to start working out with Barry again. Barry was very disciplined about lifting. And right now, Rock figured he could use some of his discipline.

Rock moved over to the incline bench and employed the