by Ian Rankin
The script doctors got together to tell stories about past Hollywood prisoners: Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Chandler, all of whom had liked a drink. Alcohol hadn’t bothered the moguls. Drugs didn’t seem to bother them either – just as long as the work got done. That was your problem: hope and work just didn’t mix. You had an apartment in Studio City, but the walls were too close together and the view from your window was a concrete wall. You joked that there was more room in your car, a T-Bird you’d bought from a TV actor who was up on a DUI charge. He was hoping to persuade the court that he was shedding his old life. The consensus was, he’d win his case; he played pretty well to an audience, had some stage work behind him.
You liked to get out of the city, drive up the coast, even when it was hazy. Especially when it was hazy. You loved the feeling of driving into something you couldn’t see; loved when each curve in the road surprised you. It was like driving into the future. You told a girl about your feelings. She said the image wasn’t new, mentioned its use in a novel a few years back.
It was the first novel by the sleepy American. He still hadn’t produced a follow-up, and amazingly this had only increased his profile, the non-book taking on heroic status. All he had to do was claim he’d finished another chapter, and it was the talk of the coffee shops.
You saw him once in Haight-Ashbury, stumbling along at the roach-end of the hippy dream. San Francisco had the Airplane and the Dead, but LA had The Doors, and it seemed to you that LA was the true indicator of the way things were going. Nobody much cared when Lennon handed back his MBE. The much greater gesture belonged to Charles Manson and his ‘family’. Everyone in your circle was talking about that.
Then there was Vietnam, and the Panthers: violence no longer content to bubble beneath the haze. And then the band came to the Los Angeles Forum, riding on the back of hiked ticket prices and rising bad will. The underground press (no longer underground) had the knives out from the start, which didn’t stop you paying your $8.50. You made a half-hearted attempt at breaching the backstage defences, but didn’t recognise any of the faces.
‘Do you have any authority?’ one of the security goons asked, and you had to admit to yourself that you did not.
The show itself was okay. They were playing tracks from the new album – your moment of fame was already history. The band had moved on; the new songs seemed obsessed with downfall and mayhem. The last track seemed to you to be waving goodbye to everybody’s good times. You doubted the Panthers and the Angels would disagree.
It was typical of the band to want to replicate Wood-stock’s good feelings. Typical that they misjudged the way the world’s mood had travelled since then. Their own free concert was by way of an apology for ticket scams and all that ill-feeling. You knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.
For a start, the drugs had moved on. Everything was bad: diluted, cut with poison, lethal. You were a pro; you could probably give Keith lessons on where to score. You had managed to pull yourself away from the siren call of heroin, but the acid seemed to be giving you more bad trips than good ones. Nevertheless, on the day, you took a proffered tab from a complete stranger.
And tripped.
In cold black light, explosions strafing the sky. The sound system consisted of alarm bells and artillery. The crowd was hungry, tired, concussed. They needed everything they weren’t getting. The medicos couldn’t cope with the trauma victims. Word went around: ‘Don’t touch any acid you’re not sure of.’ But you already had. And you’d handed over money for a single sheet of further trips, little purple stars: an ironic comment on the war in Vietnam? Who gave a shit – you were beyond irony by this point.
You had about a week to go before your employers threw you out. You’d added nothing of inspiration to a ‘modern western’ they’d asked you to pep up; had failed dismally to pitch them a black comedy about the drug scene in LA. You were not justifying their early faith in you. You were on the road out of Tinseltown.
Back to Blighty: a dismal prospect. You’d already traded the T-Bird to pay off a debt which had come with the promise of a switchblade attached. They’d threatened to cut off your eyelids. That was the way things were now. The most potent threat anyone could make was to stop you ceasing to see.
You’d hitched down here with a friend. The traffic had forced you out of the car five miles from the field, and you’d promptly lost your friend in the crowd. Not that he’d be your friend for long: you owed him money, too, and were planning to fly off without making good.
You were way past ‘making good’.
You noticed them early on, the Angels. They revved their engines, clearing a path for several dozen hogs, which they parked in front of the stage, creating a security cordon. And then the guest bands started coming on, and it got colder, and trouble flared. Pool cues and motorbike chains. Ugly cries and gashed heads. Pleas from the stage going unheeded, an Angel going up there to pick a fight with a stoned musician.
You were standing next to this black guy when the headliners – your old muckers – finally came on. Your whole body was numb, but your brain was alive with sparks. The air felt malign; the hairs once more rose on your arms. Violence broke out again.
‘This is heavy,’ the black guy said. You offered him a tab of your acid, showed him the little purple stars.
‘I sang backing on this,’ you shouted. The black guy nodded. ‘In the studio,’ you persisted. ‘I’m there on the album.’
He nodded again, but you knew he wasn’t listening. You were humming now; brimful of brimstone. And up there on the stage they were playing your tune.
‘This is it, man,’ you yelled at your new friend, slapping him on the back. ‘This is us! This is what it’s all about! Come on!’ And you gave him a push that sent him jogging down to the front, right into the phalanx of guards. You stayed back. You watched. You saw silver flash in the darkness. A gun? A knife? Your friend went down and was swallowed up by denim jackets and leathers. People started screaming, showing bloodied palms to the band on the stage. Over the microphone, a doctor was requested.
The cusp of devilment, my friend…
You nodded to yourself, jungle drums dying in your ears. The sacrifice had been made. The energy had been earthed. Anger’s Lucifer had been appeased.
Or whatever.
And the sky made a song of your cries…
Unlucky in Love, Unlucky at Cards
Unlucky at cards, lucky in love: isn’t that how the saying goes?
Which is why Chick Morrison went to the casino the night his wife finally walked out. She’d left a note explaining that she wasn’t leaving him; it was just that she couldn’t stand his habits any longer. He tore her note up. It had taken her several attempts: the rejects were little crumpled balls in the kitchen bin. He lifted each one out and spread them on the table, trying to work out their chronological sequence. It wasn’t just a matter of the shortest one being the first attempt: each began on a different tack.
She was leaving him because she felt lost, and had to find herself.
She was leaving him because it would be cruel not to.
She was leaving him – well, he had to admire her for all the effort she’d taken, all the effort she’d felt he merited. Or maybe she just didn’t want him going after her. The thing was, he’d already started – started and finished, really. He’d been following her on and off for three weeks, had seen her enter the man’s house, had watched her leave, patting her hair back into place. He’d taken to tailing the man, too, not knowing why: wondering, maybe, if he could learn something, something about the kind of man his wife wanted him to be. But all he’d felt was growing tiredness, and, in a moment of sharp lucidity, that he didn’t care any more, didn’t love her any more.
Which didn’t make it any easier to just let her go. He’d wondered about killing her, making ever more convoluted plans. He knew the problem with murder was that the spouse was always first in the frame. So the murder had to be perfect. He needed either a cast-iron al
ibi or to make sure the body was never found. It was a matter of pride, wasn’t it? For years, on and off, he’d enjoyed the fantasy of being the one to walk out, the one to make the break. And now she’d beaten him to it: she was the one starting the new life; which meant he was the one who’d been left in the lurch. He didn’t like that. He resolved to do something about it.
What he did was drive into Aberdeen, park the car, and hit the pubs and clubs. And at closing time, as he was being escorted from the final hostelry, he’d seen lights and smoked-glass doors with an illuminated staircase behind them. The casino.
Lucky at cards, unlucky in love. He’d proven the latter; it was time to give the former a chance.
Walked in, watched for a little while, getting a feel for the place. That was what he did, in his line of work: he tried to fit in as quickly as possible, melt into the scenery. The person you didn’t notice as you left your hotel assignation or partook of a final embrace in an apparently empty car park. Those were the moments when Chick would catch you with his camera, making sure you were in the frame.
But that night, he felt he wanted to be seen. So he sat in on a card game. Did all right at first, losing a little here, winning a hand or two there. He was not a natural card-player. He knew how to play, knew all about card-counting, but wasn’t up to it. He liked to pretend games were all about luck rather than the playing of percentages.
He wrote out a cheque, backed it with his banker’s card. The new stack of chips arrived and he began the dogged task of giving them away. His occasional brash bets were whittled away to steady tosses of a single chip into the pot. It was late into the night; most of the tables were quiet. Gamblers who’d finished for the evening were standing around the table, a phalanx which seemed to constrain those still playing. To get up and leave… in front of an audience. It would have been like walking away from a fight.
He slid another chip across the smooth green cloth, received a card. There were four people playing, but he felt it had become personal between himself and the sweating man opposite. He could smell the man, could feel his heavy breath brushing his cheek and cooling it. The man had an American accent: fat-cat oil-executive-type. So when his opponent won for the umpteenth time, that was enough for Chick. He had found an escape clause, a way to get out without losing face.
He leapt to his feet, accused the man of cheating. People were telling him to calm down. They were telling him he was just not a very good player. Saying it wasn’t his night, but there’d be others. He was looking around for whoever had said he wasn’t any good. His eyes landed on those of the American, who seemed to be smiling as he pulled the chips in with a thick, hairless arm. Chick pointed at the man.
‘I’ll have you, pal.’
‘If you get lucky,’ the man said.
Then there were security men on Chick, hauling him out of there as he yelled back at the table, face red from embarrassment, knowing his escape clause had turned sour on him, same as everything else. One of the other players was leaning over to talk to the fat man as Chick was dragged away. He got the idea the man was telling the winner who his opponent had been.
‘Chick Morrison!’ Chick called out to the room. ‘And don’t you ever forget it!’
He spent the next couple of days not answering the phone. There was an answering machine behind the sofa, and he’d lie there listening to the messages. Usually, there was horse-racing on TV, which he watched with the sound down, making mental bets which didn’t pay out but didn’t cost him anything either.
The messages were not important. There was another machine at his office, and it would be collecting any offers of work. Eventually, he knew he’d go to the office, get back into a routine. He tried telling himself he was enjoying the break. All he ever did in his job was provide photos for suspicious spouses.
There was nothing from his wife. He thought about heading to her new beau’s house – wouldn’t that surprise them? – but didn’t. One or two past and potential clients did call him. His home phone number was part of the message they got if they called his office, though it warned them to call his home only in an emergency. The calls he listened to didn’t sound like emergencies. A woman who was on her third husband. She’d had him investigate all three. He’d reported back that they were all good and true and faithful, but she didn’t sound convinced.
A man who was on the run from his wife. She wanted maintenance payments, money the man said he didn’t have. Now he thought she’d hired a private detective, and wanted to hire one of his own to find out.
And how, Chick wondered, was he going to get paid, when the man had no money for maintenance…? Some of these people…
But then she rang. And the sound of her voice made him replay the tape. And on the third play, he found himself reaching for pen and notepad, taking down her number, calling her back.
‘I’m glad you could come in at such short notice,’ she said.
It was after hours at the car showroom. She’d told him the door would be open, he could let himself in. To get to her office, he’d walked past a gleaming display of supercars. Chick had never been inside the showroom before; knew there was nothing here he’d be able to afford.
She held out her hand and he took it. She was a well-preserved fifty, expensive hair and just the right amount of make-up. He told her he’d always imagined the J. Gemmell of J. Gemmell Motors would be a man. She smiled.
‘Surprises a lot of people. The J’s for Jacqueline.’
He sat down opposite her, asked what it was he could do for her. She told him she had a repo job.
‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it?’
Chick nodded, though he wasn’t sure himself. He took down details as she told him about the car. It was a top-of-the-range Lexus, bought on credit. The last two monthly payments hadn’t come through, and the buyer had done a bunk.
‘I put word out discreetly,’ she told Chick. ‘I don’t want it getting about that I’m an easy target. That’s where you come in.’ She told him a garage on the outskirts of Inverness had reported the Lexus stopping for petrol. The driver had told the attendant he was on his way to his holiday place in the hills above Loch Ness. ‘I want you to find him, Mr Morrison, and bring my car back here.’
Chick nodded. He was still nodding as she brought a roll of banknotes from her drawer and proceeded to peel off ten fifties.
‘I get a lot of cash customers,’ she said with a wink. ‘Hard to bank the stuff without the taxman taking an interest.’
Chick pocketed the money. Then he asked for the driver’s name.
‘Jack Grover,’ she told him. ‘He has a personalised number plate.’ As she went on to describe Grover, a smile spread over Chick’s face. She saw it and broke off.
‘You know him?’
Chick told her he thought he did. He shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world, and added that knowing people was his job, after all. She looked impressed. As he was leaving, he had a thought.
‘Any chance of a test-drive some day?’ he asked.
She smiled at him. ‘Bring back my Lexus, you can have your pick of the showroom.’
Chick was actually blushing as he left.
He knew a mechanic in Peterhead who showed him the best way to get into a Lexus and start it up. It took the mechanic about a minute and a half. He told Chick his teenage son could do it in twenty-eight seconds flat.
On the drive west, thoughts raced through Chick’s mind. A body could disappear in a loch and never be found. Then there were the Highlands themselves, remote and unvisited. A corpse could lie there for months, becoming unrecognisable. And the roads around Loch Ness were treacherous… an accident could have you over the side.
He asked at the tourist board about holiday cottages in the area, got a list. But it might be a private house, so he bought himself an Ordnance Survey map. Each little black dot was a building. He made a triangle of Inverness, Beauly and Urquhart Castle. Somewhere in here, he felt, he would find the Lexus an
d its driver, Jack Grover, the man who’d beaten him at cards.
The roads were narrow and steep, the land empty except for the occasional croft or recently built bungalow. He stopped to ask questions, not being subtle about it. A man in a big silver car: had anyone seen him? He was living nearby. He spent two days like this, two days of rejection, silence and slow shakes of the head. Two days spent mostly by himself. To save money and the journey back to Inverness, he slept in his Ford Mondeo, parking it on forest tracks. He knew he needed a shave and change of clothes, but those could wait. He wanted the job finished, because now he had a plan of sorts. It was stupid to blame his wife, to think of harming her. Her new man… well, that was for the future maybe. But Jack Grover, on the other hand… he just had to rub his nose in it. Just to show him he could.
He was thinking these things when he found the Lexus. It was parked in full view, outside a two-storey house on the outskirts of Milton. Chick stopped his car by the roadside and looked around. The house seemed quiet. He drove into Milton and left his car there – it could be picked up later. Then, taking his camera with him, he walked back to the Lexus, took another look around, and got to work. He was sweating by the time he’d got the door open and started the ignition. He got his camera ready and sounded the horn, wanting Grover to see him making off in the car, wanting a photo of the moment of triumph. But no one came to the door. Chick tried again; still no one came. He felt deflated as he sped out of the driveway and down to the banks of the loch, taking the road back into Inverness.
But as he crossed the Caledonian Canal, he felt the car’s steering slip, and a low juddering from beneath. He pulled over and found that he had a puncture. Cursing silently, he kicked the tyre and opened the boot, looking for a jack and spare tyre.