Authors: Ed Gorman
I felt my forehead. There was a bump and a scab right in the middle of it. My white shirt had blood all over it, which is why, I guessed, I'd decided to keep my red James Dean jacket zipped up to the top.
And across from me in the booth was a small, nervous, ferrety girl. I had no idea who she was.
"You know where we are?"
"Huh-uh," I said.
"You know who I am?"
"Huh-uh."
She smiled with bad teeth. "I didn't figure you would."
I had just become aware of how loud the
effing
band up on stage was. I looked to my left and saw all these couples out on a dance floor, every sort of person you could want, from punks with rooster haircuts the color of cotton candy to one or two tight-ass yuppies in suit jackets.
The place was crazed. Deafening music. People shouting above it to be heard. The air filled with the smells of booze, drugs, cigarettes.
"I let you come in my mouth," the girl said. She was Keokuk, Iowa or Jasper, Wyoming. Had to be with those grubby hippie clothes ten years out of date and that scared, hungry look in her eyes. "I never let nobody do that before."
"Then I guess I should say thank you."
"My sister said she knew a girl who choked on this guy's come once. Choked to death."
We had our heads tilted together in the middle of the booth's table so we could hear.
"You said you'd let me stay with you," she said.
"I did, huh?"
"I figured you was lying."
I grinned. "I was."
"You fucker." And all of a sudden she started crying.
And when I reached across the booth and put my hand on her shoulder, she lashed out and slapped me very hard across the face and then she jumped up and was gone.
Vanished.
And then I was outside and stumbling along Sunset. Gritty as the air was, it was better than the air inside that disco.
All the hangover downs were with me: dehydration, shakes, terrible gnawing fear that I'd done something horrible I was purposely forgetting. (Cut a throat? Suck a dick? Fuck some eight-year-old daughter of some groupie mom, at the mom's request, the way another teen idol had once done?)
Then it started to rain and all the geeks and freaks along the Strip started looking for shelter. I wondered where my car was. I wondered how I'd gotten here. I wondered how much cash I had on me.
And then I saw Wade Preston's big-ass bronze Caddy convertible parked out in front of this once-fashionable restaurant and I knew just how I'd relieve myself of my frenzy and weariness and nightmares.
While good old Wade was inside packing away the steak—Wade being one of those guys who thinks all the warnings about cholesterol are bullshit—while Wade was in there, I'd slip into his back seat and take a nap.
And when he woke me up, he could give me a ride to my place. What's a manager for, anyway?
It took me two minutes to jimmy the lock and thirty seconds to fall asleep.
"You cocksucker."
"It's business, Jerry. If you were in my position, you'd do the same thing."
"Wonder how all those kiddies out there in TV land would like it if they knew that Wade Preston was a fucking blackmailer?"
"Wonder how all the ladies out there in movie land would like to know that their favorite leading man likes to gobble the knob every chance he gets?"
"You're scum, Wade. You're fucking scum."
"Call it what you want to, Jerry. I never would have put that private detective on you if you hadn't tried to nullify your contract with my agency."
Deep night. Caddy hurtling along beside the ocean. I can smell the water through the open window.
Apparently, when I went to sleep, I fell down between the seats and Wade didn't notice me.
Neck hurt. Had to piss bad. Megaton headache.
"I'm leaving your agency anyway, Wade. Pictures or no pictures."
I knew who was speaking. Wade's only super-big client. Jerry Parker. flunky leading man just now making his way into father-figure roles, the graying hair helping instead of hurting him.
Big guy, Jerry. Bad temper, too. And Wade was obviously pushing it, Jerry being the kind of guy who would feed you a knuckle sandwich any time the itch took him.
Wade said, "Then leave the agency, Jerry. But you know the price. Several magazines and several newspapers get some photos of you and your new boyfriend in some very undignified poses."
"You fucker." Jerry said.
And then silence.
And then night air.
And then moonshine.
And then the tide rolling in.
As the Caddy barrel-assed along a narrow road above the ocean. Rough road—smooth road—rough road. Tires humming. "So which is it going to be?" Wade said.
Car rolled to a stop. Jerry got out. Interior light went on. Apparently he was so engrossed in his rage that he still didn't notice me.
"You've got me, Wade, and you know it. But someday—" And with that, he slammed the door.
Interior light went off.
Retreating footsteps.
Wade: "Faggot."
And then the car was rolling again.
And then I coughed.
Brakes slammed on.
Wade came up over the back of the seat with this big, silver-plated Magnum in his hand. Pointed it straight down at me. "What the
hell're
you doing back there?"
"Wade, I—"
But he didn't give me a chance to talk.
He hit me on the side of the head with the barrel of the Magnum and he said, "If you ever repeat what you heard, you bastard, I'll fucking kill you with my own hands, you understand?"
I understood...
As I said, this happened several years ago. Wade must've gotten some pretty good shots of old Jerry because Jerry just signed a multi-million dollar, three-pie deal with Paramount... and guess who the agent was? None other than good old Wade Preston.
And I, of course, have used my secret knowledge on Wade every time he's tried to put the screws to me.
Cut him off, he says to Lilly.
And when Lilly tells me this, I just step into a phone booth a la Superman and call Wade and remind him of that little ride I took in the back seat of the Caddy that long-ago Malibu midnight...
And I get what I want.
But has Wade finally tired of me?
Is it Wade who cut off Beth's head and put it in her refrigerator?
God knows, he hates me enough to do it...
1
W
ade Preston's yacht was ostentatious even by the standards of the other big, white sailing ships lining the harbor.
Puckett reached it just after lunchtime. Everybody in the area was quietly celebrating the fine, warm, spring day—women in bikinis and tank tops; shirtless men in jeans rolled up to the knees; and one beautiful, yipping, Border Collie who kept jumping eagerly between the deck of his master's boat and the dock.
Preston was dressed formally in white shirt, blue double-breasted jacket and white ducks. He obviously enjoyed the role of the ship's captain.
"Care for a little liquid refreshment, Mr. Puckett? I'm about to have a gin and tonic."
"Not right now. Thanks."
Preston shot him a matinee idol grin. "A man of decorum and propriety. I'm impressed." He nodded to the cabin and below deck. "Be right back."
While he waited, Puckett looked over Lake Michigan. He'd grown up reading Jack London's South Sea tales and he'd long dreamed of a life at sea. Then he spoiled the dream by
spending a
whiskied
week in a Fiji island bar while outside it poured cold and ceaseless rain. No wonder the place had such a high suicide rate.
"Why don't we go sit down?" Preston said when he returned with his drink.
They took deck chairs. As they were seating themselves, a red motorboat flashed by towing a voluptuous blonde in a string bikini. The boat blatted its horn. The blonde smiled and waved with the fetching self-importance of a beauty contest winner.
"I just got a call from Lilly," Preston said. "She said both of us should be expecting to see you.
Cobey
being wanted by the police, I mean, and you being a detective and all."
"She say anything else?"
"Oh, nothing earth-shaking. Just that you were a dumb, goddamn asshole and nosy, motherfucking, arrogant prick."
"I knew she liked me."
Preston laughed. "Some people in Hollywood consider it a badge of honor to be hated by Lilly Carlyle. I have the goddamn luck to be in love with her."
Preston had switched tones from ironic to melancholy right there at the last, and he'd startled Puckett.
"It's true," Preston said. "I'm not just emoting the way some actors do because they like to hear themselves talk. I actually love her." He sipped his drink and looked out at the blonde on the water skis coming round again. "I've been after her to marry me for twenty years now and she's turned me down every time I propose. Isn't that the shits?"
He had some more gin and tonic and when he brought his glass down Puckett realized that the man was quietly drunk. "How about
Cobey
?"
"What about
Cobey
?" Preston said, sounding guarded now. "Well, I'm told that Lilly has spent most of her time with him these past twenty years or so."
Preston smiled. "You're fishing, aren't you, Puckett? And you've picked a good place to do it—off a yacht, I mean. You
want to know if I decapitated that girl to blame it on
Cobey
, don't you? I mean, I guess it's no secret that I hate that little fairy."
"Fairy?"
"Oh, not homosexual, exactly. But not very manly, either."
Puckett couldn't resist. "Weren't you a disc jockey in Buffalo, New York before you became a movie cowboy?"
"So I was, Puckett. But even back in Buffalo, I had two cast iron balls I could call my own."
Puckett had no trouble believing that.
The water skier now had a friend, a dark-haired friend who was, if anything, even more outlandishly voluptuous than the blonde.
The speedboat blatted its horn again.
The women waved.
Preston gave them a tight, hip little salute.
"Goddamned AIDS, anyway," Preston said.
"AIDS?"
"Hell, yes, AIDS. In the old days, I would've had those two on board this yacht so fast you wouldn't have believed it. And I'd have screwed their brains out, too, one right after the other." He sat back in his chair. There was a real melancholy about him now. "I'm not boasting, either. No cock-of-the-walk bullshit, I mean. I'm telling the truth."
"I'm sure you are. But what about your undying love for Lilly?"
"Don't mock me, Puckett. I hate being mocked. The truth is, I do feel undying love for Lilly, but since she has never accepted any of my marriage proposals, I've never felt any great obligation to be faithful."
The soft afternoon air smelled of sunlight and water. Nearby, the two water skiers were laughing. They sounded as innocent and exultant as little girls.
Puckett said, "How about
Cobey
?"
"How about
Cobey
what?"
"Do you think he could have killed the Swallows woman?"