The door opened.
Close your mouth, boy. Lotta flies down here.
Jack had Charlie spread out on the desk, just the way he liked her; he was crouched over her, eyes half-closed, face flushed, futile attempt to hide her.
His wife, his beautiful angel wife, staring at him. In her hand, a bundle of papers spelled D-O-O-M in the reddest of inks. She’d come to save him from Ole Red’s wrath, convinced her daddy had it wrong. But for all his faults, Red was never wrong about the money; Aisling was finally seeing the truth. End of the Money Train. End of the line.
‘God help me,’ whispered Jack.
Aisling looked at him. At his face. At his hands. At the six rows of white powder Jack had chopped out in front of him. Finally understood.
‘Cocaine,’ she said softly. ‘All this time I thought — I thought you were with — and it was —’ Her face was white. ‘Oh, Jack, Jack —’ Trying to hold it together. ‘And these papers — these deals . . .’ Tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ said Jack, ridiculous, because how the hell else could the situation be construed? He’d ruined himself, destroyed his marriage, damned near bankrupted Red Giant. He was a junkie, a thief, an embezzler and an all-round bastard; everything he’d sworn he’d never be.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘It’s exactly what it looks like, Jack.’ She held out the papers; her hands were shaking. ‘And this is what it looks like too. These things you’ve done. This missing money.’
‘No,’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Nobody can think straight when they’ve got an addiction to feed. Oh, Jack —’
She wiped tears off her chin with the back of her hand, and pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I thought it was a mistake,’ she said. ‘I thought, My Jack, there’s no way he’d do this — he might fall in love with someone else, but not lying — not stealing — this is a mistake — but there is no mistake, is there, Jack? Jerry was right. It’s all true.’
‘Jerry?’ The name like a slap in the face. Even when your insides are black and numb with the bad things you’ve done, you can still feel the pain of betrayal. ‘That little bastard, I’ll —’
‘My dad made him check, he was getting suspicious — he tried to save you, Jack. He called me before he sent it, so I could warn you —’
‘You came here to warn me?’ Her goodness in his heart like a bright knife. ‘You thought I was cheating on you, and you still came here to warn me?’
‘I thought there was still a chance to save us,’ she said. ‘But there’s no point, is there? There’s nothing to save. You’re not the man I thought you were. We were going to change the world, remember? And now you’re worse than any of them.’
Jack stared at her, groping for the words. Couldn’t find them.
Then he heard this almighty roar, more like an animal than anything that ever wore clothes. Heard Beatrice scream. Then McLain Carroll, the Red Giant himself, exploded into the room.
‘You,’ growled Red. ‘You fucking little thief. Thought you could put it all right, did you? Thought you could put the money back before anyone noticed?’ Jack saw his hands twitch. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment since your wedding day, you asshole. I told you then I’d kill you if you ever stepped outta line — I’ve been fucking praying for the chance to do this —’
‘No!’ screamed Ashling.
Red was quick, but Jack was quicker, and coked out of his head into the bargain. He reached into his desk drawer. Pulled out the gun Jerry told him to buy.
For a moment, the universe stopped. Jack remembered his wedding day, how Aisling looked when he lifted her veil; the first time he kissed her, that night by the percolator; how his shirt stuck to his back when he first walked in off the street into the air-conditioned office; the way the sun looked coming up over the hill at the back of his daddy’s farm in Idaho, spilling over the horizon like corn syrup.
Then he pulled the trigger, and shot McLain Carroll right through his old black heart.
He and Aisling looked at each other over the body of her father.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘You’re right. I’m not the man we both thought I was. Every word you said is true.’
She stared at him wordlessly, her father’s blood pooling around her feet. Too much happening in too little time. A crash always seems to happen in slow motion.
‘I’m not as strong as you,’ he said. ‘I never was. It was all too much for me. I’m so sorry, Aisling. For what it’s worth, there never was another woman. I always loved you.’ He held the gun to his head.
‘Don’t —’ she said, on a reflex.
‘I think you should go now,’ he said. ‘I need to pay the bill. This is the end of the line for me.’
She would have stayed, to be with her daddy if nothing else, but Beatrice grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the elevator, fast as they could go.
But not far enough to get away from the sound of that second gunshot.
Bottom of the bottle, pal; end of the line. The Money Train stopped, threw all the Red Giant employees out at the station. Jack had done what he’d always said he’d do, after a fashion: he’d brought down one of the giants of Wall Street from the inside. Company went to the wall. Aisling buried her father. Jerry died in a car crash.
What the heck you talking about, What happened to Jack? You got all the pieces, pal; you can’t put together a suicidal coke-head who just shot his father-in-law and a gunshot in a deserted office, you ain’t any kind of a storyteller.
Sheesh, once you get an idea in your head . . . look, even if there was a way for him to get outta that office — d’you think I’d tell you if I was Jack? Think I’d admit to being that sorry excuse for a man? Think I’d confess on tape to embezzlement and murder? I told you, College Boy, I ain’t in this story anywhere. The Money Train crashed, and took Jack down with it; I just crawled out from the wreckage. I’m just a travelling pilgrim, hiding out in this City of Angels, doing penance for all my sins, till I can finally hitch a ride outta here in an empty railroad car.
Interview #27
— Ruth Boone
Hollywood, Los Angeles, CA
The thing about Private Investigators: our stories belong to other people. We’re voyeurs by nature. We watch Life sashay down the street, ripe and lovely and sinful and sweet, while we lurk in the shadows and pick out the flaws. Tinseltown’s harshest critics are its PIs, turning the icons of our age back into the ordinary flesh and blood they secretly always knew they were.
Of course, a PI only spills what she sees to whoever’s paying the bills, and even then she uses her head and knows when to shut up. Too many answers can drive you mad. I can’t tell what I know to any bright-eyed travelling man who crosses my path in a bar. That said, I think I’ve got a tale for you, although all names have been changed to protect the innocent. The innocent, and the guilty, and the ones who are just living their lives, doing the best they know how. Of course, it all depends on how you define best.
It starts the way these things always start: with a phone call. I’m drinking Jack Daniels in the Manderley bar, watching the sunset and the bartender. She’s a hot little Latino number, sweet and simple and satisfying, like ice-cream swirled with caramel sauce. The man beside me watches too, but it’s me she smiles at from beneath her eyelashes. I imagine taking her to an island in the sun for a long, slow vacation. She’d kick off her shoes and dig her toes into the sand, and her curls would shine with coconut oil . . .
Then my phone rings, and I sigh and take the call, because I’m between jobs right now, and God knows I could use the money.
‘Yes?’ I’ve still got half an eye on the girl. She’s mixing a Seabreeze; there’s a scar at the base of her thumb.
‘Ruth?’
I’d like to order a Seabreeze and watch her mix it for me. Maybe hang
around till she gets off shift, persuade her home with me. We’d dance slowly to Sinatra and talk until the sun came up . . . ‘If you’ve got this number, you know it’s me.’
‘I know, I’m just messing with ya. Turn around.’
I turn around and see my least favourite conjunction of carbon atoms five feet behind me. He snaps his clamshell shut and saunters over.
‘Very fuckable,’ he says, nodding to the bartender. This is Angel Pulanski’s idea of building rapport, which probably explains why his girlfriends charge by the hour. ‘Heard you were short of work.’
‘Did you?’ He’s right, of course. Hollywood’s like that, for PIs as much as anyone. Some months you’re under the money-tree in blossom season. Others, you’re selling CDs to make rent.
‘Got a job for you.’ His teeth are the only non-grubby part of him. The contrast beween the white veneers and the face around them is terrifying.
‘I don’t work for trash.’
‘Hush Hush ain’t trash. We got awards.’
‘Who says I was talking about the magazine?’
Pulanski’s the Teflon man when it comes to insults. He hitches himself onto a barstool. I took an assignment from him three years ago, a scam the local Precinct had going with the working girls, letting them work the streets in peace in return for services rendered. A good piece of work that needed doing. Pulanski refused to run it because, get this, the girls weren’t pretty enough. Swore I’d never work for him again.
‘Kate Miller. One a my boys saw her in this intime little shithole the wrong end a Sunset, meeting some guy.’
‘So?’
‘I want photos.’
‘You’ve got photographers.’
‘Yah, well, I also got a deal with her husband. He lets me on set to report all the dirt he don’t feature in. He knows all my boys and girls, and they ain’t as good as you at sneaking around. He sees ’em tailing Kate, I’m dogmeat, you know what I’m sayin’? But if it just lands on my desk . . .’ He grins. ‘Even the King can’t argue with the First Amendment.’
No way is this all of the truth. For whatever reason, Angel’s pissed at Brad, and he wants revenge.
‘What’s he done to get under your skin?’ Angel looks shifty. ‘Come on, Angel, spill.’
‘If I tell you will you take the job?’
‘No chance.’
‘Then I ain’t telling.’ He winks. ‘You gonna make rent this month?’
‘I’ll sell my Louboutins.’
He glances down. My shoes are butter-soft caramel suede with luscious four-inch heels, and I can feel every step of the short walk from the lot to the bar throbbing in the soles of my feet. They’re beautiful shoes, but they’re breaking my heart. Much better to end it now, before I get too involved.
‘Think you’ll get five thou for those? Cuz that’s what I’ll pay.’
‘Dollars? Or pieces of silver?’
‘You want it as twenty thousand quarters?’ He sighs. ‘Well, okay, but are you fucking nuts?’
‘Forget it. No deal, Angel.’ I slide off the bar stool. My feet protest. I ignore them.
‘Fair enough.’ I don’t like Angel’s smile. ‘Brad King’s got the best security in Hollywood. You’d never get past it, anyway.’
‘Are you trying to needle me into taking the job?’
‘Yeah. Is it working?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Cuz he’ll catch you.’
‘I never get caught.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’ What I mean is not so far. But until the day you die, that’s the only kind of never there is. Angel’s laughing, because he knows he’s found my weak spot.
‘Bet?’
‘No!’
‘Betcha three thou?’
‘You said five, you sly bastard.’
‘Damn. So I did. So you’ll do it for five?’
Over his shoulder, the bartender’s laughing with a customer. Five thousand. Five months of rent; a week in the Caribbean; five year’s worth of Seabreezes. It’s not the most I’ve made off a job, but it’s the most for a while. On the downside, I hate Angel.
‘I still hate you.’
‘That’s okay, I hate you too. We got a deal, though, right?’
I hold out a hand and try not to shudder when he takes it.
That night I change into black silk pyjamas, pour myself a whisky and sit down with a pack of Red Apples and three DVDs from the corner store. The Crystal Necklace. The Alabaster Ring. The Golden Cradle. I watch them with half an eye and rummage through my near-perfect collection of Variety, Hello!, Hush Hush and National Enquirers, tracing Kate’s transformation from coltish unknown to full-blown superstar, wife of her producer and co-star Brad King. Her talent and her heart-stopping beauty are the only reasons Necklace survived its opening weekend. Kate put Brad back on top with three back-to-back gold-plated hits, then made him a father into the bargain. There’s the iconic shot in Hello!, taken a year ago: Brad protective, Kate glowing, baby Miranda wary and curious, huge eyes and hair like thistledown. Brad, inevitably: ‘Miranda’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ I have to disagree. I don’t really like babies and, actually, Kate Miller is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I freeze on a close-up of her exquisite face.
The next day, the temperature’s rising. I call around a few contacts, find the company that supplies the Kings’ cleaning staff. They’re supposed to be security-checked, but LA’s a border town full of drifters; the companies swear blind they’re on top of it, but they’re all liars. A quiet conversation and a fistful of dollars, and I’m walking in through the service door with a mop and bucket in my hand.
A maid’s uniform is like an invisibility cloak. I roam the mansion, opening doors and doors and more doors, until I find Kate’s PA’s office. She’s in it, but she’s on the phone, and she waves me in and carries on talking, pacing up and down. I mop the floor for a while, deliberately getting in her way. After she falls over me for the fourth time, she gives me a look and disappears into the corridor, shutting the door.
Since I don’t want to get my contact into trouble, I finish mopping, dust the shelves and empty the trash. Then I riffle through the desk and find a diary with wall-to-wall appointments, great and small. Beauticians, trainers, hairdressers, stylists, journos, shutterbugs, personal shoppers. I can hear the assistant pacing in the corridor outside and make with the mop, sloshing warningly around.
Then I find it: two days later, a tell-tale gap in the schedule, a pause in the merry-go-round. A three-hour window in time, through which I can spy on Kate’s long lunch with Nobody.
Bingo.
Kate leaves via the service entrance, driving herself in a beige SX4. From the way she watches the mirrors, it’s clear her biggest worry is her own security team. Five minutes out from the house and she plainly doesn’t have five husky guys with a lot of bling tailing her, so she relaxes. She doesn’t flinch at the ‘SEE THE HOMES OF THE STARS’ minibus; it’s empty, and the driver’s kicking back and drinking a milkshake. I put the drink on the seat beside me and stay two or three cars behind.
We’re heading into the hills. After a while I guess where we’re going, and take a chance and a short cut. By the time she arrives at the Hollywood Observatory, I’m comfortably nestled down among the scrub, my camera trained on Kate and a skinny, out-of-town-looking guy chewing his fingernails.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, so I watch the body language. There’s intimacy, but not that kind; I’m pretty sure they’re not sleeping together. He’s asking for something. She’s refusing, but she doesn’t want to piss him off too much either; the power dynamics are strange here. Looks more like blackmail than anything else. I triple-check the flash is off, squeeze off a few shots. Anywhere else, the guy would be passable — a bit skinny, but he has nice dar
k eyes, thick black hair — but in Tinseltown, he’s got loser tattooed on his forehead. No presence on camera. Kate, unsurprisingly, photographs like a dream. However, she’s wearing no make-up. She’ll be beautiful till she dies, but pretty is mostly grooming, and today, she isn’t the least bit pretty.
He glances up and I flinch. The camera’s painted matt black and the lens is shielded, but sometimes the sun catches it at the wrong angle . . . I squeeze off one more anyway, get a shot of him looking warily upwards. He’s getting angry. So is she. She’s snarling now, her face contorted with passion. He grabs her arm. She shakes it off, but not in the incredulous way we do when a stranger touches us. There’s the weariness of familiarity about them. Interesting. The argument ends with Kate storming off, but she hesitates as she goes and it’s clear that, whatever it is, it’s not over.
Kate Miller is definitely not sleeping with this guy. They know each other to the bone, but there’s about the same amount of lust as I have for my little brother. I doubt Angel would pay fifty bucks for these shots; no matter how he cuts them, it doesn’t add up to Screen Siren’s Secret Love Tryst!, which is the headline he’s looking for.
So — what?
I can’t afford to be curious, but sometimes you have to splurge. I watch him all the way back to his car. It’s a Hertz rental, narrowing it down to just under thirty per cent of all rented cars in the State, but I’ve got a make and model, and an ex-girlfriend at the office, and I reckon I can find the guy’s name.
‘Whatever you want, Ruth, it’s no,’ Carolina says when I lean across the rental desk and smile. Not a good start. ‘Nice shoes, by the way.’
‘What makes you think I want anything? And thank you.’
‘Because that’s the only time you come around,’ she says wearily, pushing her hair back from her forehead. ‘And I was up all night with the baby and I’m tired and I’m not in the mood.’
New World Fairy Tales Page 10