All My Colors

by David Quantick

  “They found a body,” Sara said, breaking Todd’s reverie.

  “What? Who did?”

  “The police. Somebody was walking their dog past the bookstore, and the lights were on. The door was open too, so they went in, and there was—the officer said—this bloody mess. The face, all slashed up. Like ribbons.”

  Todd’s mind was racing to follow this.

  “The bookstore—Legolas? You mean it was Timothy? Someone killed Timothy?”

  “That’s what the police said but when they couldn’t identify the body, because of the face being all… I thought it must be you, Todd.”

  “But why? Why would you think it was me?”

  Sara wiped her eyes.

  “Because where his—they’d stuck…”

  She straightened up. “They put your book in his mouth. Where his mouth used to be, anyway. They stuck your book in his face.”

  Todd remembered his dream, Timothy saying he’d devoured Todd’s book.

  I never thought he meant it literally, Todd thought.

  The cops came around soon after. A predictable round of do you know anyone who might want to harm you and where were you when the incident took place (which was an enormously stupid question because both the cops had seen Todd on TV that night). Todd answered all their questions and the police went away unsatisfied. Come back, he wanted to shout, I’m the killer! I just love to slice up bookstore owners and use their mouths as mailboxes! And I always leave my own book behind as a clue!

  * * *

  Todd went to the store where, he was gratified to see, one or two customers actually started at him, and the girl behind the counter said, “Are you famous?”

  “If you have to ask, then I guess the answer’s no,” said Todd, which he thought was both snappy and modest. The girl just looked disappointed and rang Todd’s purchases up in silence.

  * * *

  Todd returned home, taking care not to wake Sara, who was asleep in his bed. He made a ham sandwich, poured some milk into a glass and went into the kitchen, where a huge pile of mail awaited him. Most of it was junk. There was Behm’s bill, which he set to one side, and there was a letter from Janis’s lawyer, telling him that as he had failed to respond to any of their attempts to communicate with him they had no choice but to blah. Todd crumpled up the letter and threw it in the corner, where in his mind’s eye he saw it explode in a puff of dust.

  Then he bent down and picked it up, read off the phone number at the top and called it.

  “This is Todd Milstead.”

  “Oh hi, Mr. Milstead, Coughlan speaking. Been trying to get hold of you.”

  “I’ve been away. Listen, I don’t want to spend my day talking to a lawyer. Janis can have what she wants, so long as it all happens right away.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means if she wants a divorce, if she wants me out of the house, all that, it has to be… before the end of this month. Otherwise I contest.”

  “This wouldn’t be anything to do with your recent television appearance, would it? Or your book?”

  Shit, rumbled, thought Todd.

  “Janis can have what she originally asked for. If she wants to turn this into a fight, it’ll be long and drawn out.”

  “Meaning you’re happy to give her the house and whatever piddling alimony she asked for three months ago, so long as she can’t get her hands on the money you hope to make from this book?”

  “Meaning we all want a clean break, don’t we?”

  Coughlan sighed. “Okay, Mr. Milstead, I’ll speak to Mrs. Milstead. Goodbye. In the meantime—”

  “Yes?” said Todd.

  “As a gesture of goodwill, and because it’s going to happen whatever Mrs. Milstead decides, are you prepared to move out of the marital home right away?”

  For some reason Todd felt breezy. A tune came into his head. Carry on, my wayward son. He looked around the old homestead. It was pokey, brown, and smelled like defeat and the past. “You mean move out now?” he said.

  “End of the week would be fine,” said Coughlan.

  Why not give them what they want, thought Todd. I’ll be rolling in the green stuff soon. Buy me a mansion, maybe. The tune rose up in his ears.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll get onto it right away.”

  “Okay,” said Coughlan, sounding surprised. Todd put the phone down and wandered back into the living room, humming. “Masquerading as a man with a reason,” he sang to himself and turned on the TV.

  * * *

  “I’m not sure,” Sara said. They were in Todd’s bed, which Todd figured was the best place for this conversation.

  “It would only be for a few weeks while I found a new apartment,” Todd said. And while I waited for a royalty check, he added to himself. So maybe a few months.

  As if reading his mind, Sara said, “Can’t the publishers advance you some money on sales? Isn’t that what an advance is?”

  “They already did,” said Todd. “And the whole amount of that will be swallowed up by legal fees.”

  “I know this is going to sound odd,” said Sara. “But when we live together—and yes, that is what I want—when that happens, I want it to be a fresh start. For both of us.”

  “I want that too,” said Todd. “But—”

  “You do?”

  “I do,” said Todd. “I really do. But—”

  “No buts then, Todd. When we’re under the same roof, it’s got to be a new roof. I’m tired of sleeping in the bed you and Janis shared, and then the bed me and Terry shared. Fresh start means fresh start.”

  Todd forced a smile.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “You do understand, don’t you?” Sara said. She looked worried.

  “Of course I do,” said Todd.

  I understand that I’m going to be living in a motel for six months.

  * * *

  “You moving out?” said the cop, looking at the piles of boxes in the drive.

  “I am,” said Todd, wondering where the cop’s Detective of the Year badge was.

  “Amicable split,” he explained. “Books going into storage, the rest belongs to the wife.”

  “Okay,” said the cop, slowly. His name was Officer Benedict and he said everything slowly.

  “I mention it because on the TV you guys are always telling people not to skip town and to tell you when we’re going somewhere,” Todd explained.

  “You’re not leaving town, are you?” asked Officer Benedict.

  “No,” said Todd. “I’ll be staying at the Sunset Motel.”

  He gave Benedict a card. Benedict looked at it like he’d been asked to memorize it.

  “Not staying with friends?” he said.

  No, it’s kind of difficult because they’ve all been horribly murdered, thought Todd.

  ‘What did you want to see me about?” he asked, and Officer Benedict’s brow furrowed, as though he had genuinely forgotten.

  “Well, it’s kind of weird,” he said. “It’s about the book.”

  “My book?” asked Todd.

  “That’s what’s weird about it,” said Benedict. “When we got the book out of the guy’s—when we removed the book, it was, like I said, covered in blood. I mean, it looked like it had been dipped in tomato soup. Just—”

  “I get it,” said Todd.

  “Sorry. Anyway, we cleaned it up and there it was. All My Colors. Your book. And the place was full of it. I mean, other copies. Piled up. The whole window. It wasn’t like the killer had to bring his own copy. The place was—”

  “I’m with you,” said Todd.

  “Sorry. So we didn’t look too closely.”

  A pause.

  “Now I’m not with you,” Todd said.

  “At the book. We made an assumption, Mr. Milstead. Because of it being your book stuck in the guy’s gullet—sorry again—we thought maybe there was a connection to you.”

  “Reasonable enough.”

  “Yeah, but the thing is, it wasn�
��t your book.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Officer Benedict pulled out from inside his jacket a transparent evidence bag that contained a stiff, crumpled, brown rectangle. Despite its battered, bloodstained condition, Todd recognized it at once.

  “The lab guy cleaned it up some more and then he saw,” said Benedict. “It’s called All My Colors, all right, but it’s not your book. It’s by some guy called—”

  Officer Benedict peered at the cover.

  “Jake Turner.”

  Todd frowned.

  “That is odd,” he said. “I never heard of him.”

  “Really?” said Benedict. “We were kind of hoping that you might, on account of it’s such a weird coincidence.”

  “You think it is a coincidence?” asked Todd, as casually as he could.

  “Well, frankly, no, that was the wrong word,” said Benedict. “But we can’t think of any other explanation. Nobody we asked ever heard of this guy—” Internally, Todd sighed with relief. “—and we can’t figure out why somebody would want to write a book with the same title as another book, that would be confusing for people, so the sergeant thought he’d just send me up here to ask you in person. If you had any ideas, that is.”

  “Can’t help you,” said Todd. “I mean, you’re right, why would I give my book the same name as someone else’s book? That would be absurd, it would be—” Todd searched for a word that Benedict might be more familiar with. “—crazy.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Benedict. “So just to confirm, for the record. You never heard of this book, or Jake Turner?”

  “No to both,” said Todd.

  “Okay,” said Benedict, “Sorry to bother you.”

  He got up to leave.

  “Can I ask you something?” said Todd, trying to sound disinterested.

  “Fire away,” said Benedict, putting the book back in his jacket.

  “The lab guys… did they, were they able to look inside the book at all?”

  “For clues, you mean?” said Benedict.

  No, for spare change. “Yes,” said Todd.

  “That did occur to them,” said Benedict. “But the pages were so stiff with blood, they’d all kind of fused together. Like a brick.”

  “I see,” said Todd. “Thanks, officer.”

  “No problem,” said Benedict. “If anything does occur to you, get in touch. And thanks for this,” he added, putting the motel card in his pocket.

  Todd closed the door behind Benedict. He sat down on the nearest chair and found that he was shaking uncontrollably.

  The phone rang and Todd nearly jumped into the air. He reached out a trembling hand.

  “Mr. Milstead? Behm here.”

  “Oh, hi,” said Todd. He felt dizzy.

  “You okay? This a bad time?”

  “No, of course not. Where are you? It sounds loud.”

  “I’m in a call box, outside a liquor store. There’s a lot of really drunk guys here and they’re having a party in the parking lot.”

  “It sounds like fun.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s a riot. Mr. Milstead, I’m in Pontiac.”

  For a moment the name meant nothing to Todd. Then it clicked.

  “Pontiac, Michigan?”

  “Where your guy comes from.”

  Todd’s heart all but leapt out of his mouth.

  “Jake Turner? You found Jake Turner?”

  “Not exactly,” said Behm. “Mr. Milstead, I think I need to see you.”

  “Today?” said Todd. “Because I’m moving out of my house.”

  “Divorce come through?”

  “Not exactly,” Todd said. “Goodwill gesture.”

  “You’re a lovely guy.”

  “I know,” said Todd. “So when will you be coming to see me?”

  “I got a few things to tie up. Give me your new address and I’ll come by in a week or so.”

  “You can find me at the Sunset Motel.”

  “Classy,” said Behm, and rang off.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, just as it started raining, Todd took the Volvo out of town to the Sunset. He parked in the lot, looked around—it was getting darker as well as wetter—and put the big lock on the steering wheel. Then he removed all his stuff from the car, locked it, checked he’d locked it, and went inside. There was nobody on reception, or in the office, which smelled of all the stale tobacco in history, but there was a note on the desk.

  MILSTEAD, it read. ROOM 5. KEY ON HOOK.

  Todd found the hook, took down the key, and trundled his cases to the room. Room 5 was on the end of a row. The window was open and a curtain was flapping wetly in the rain. Todd unlocked the door and went in. The room was everything a junkie could want from a motel room. A thin bed with thinner bedding, an armchair that looked like someone’s uncle had died in it during the war, a closet apparently made of old popsicle sticks, and the kind of carpet that was so greasy it looked like it had been poured onto the floor from a frying pan.

  Todd turned on a bedside lamp, which fizzed at him, flickered on and off a few times, and eventually settled down to a dull yellow glow. He turned on the TV, checked the phone was working, and lay on the bed.

  Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Coughlan and he sounded pretty clenched.

  “You found me then,” said Todd.

  Coughlan got straight down to it.

  “You have a deal,” he said. “Sign the papers this week and Mrs. Milstead will grant you a divorce on her original terms.”

  “Thanks,” said Todd.

  “I have to say, I am not happy with this arrangement,” said Coughlan. “I strongly advised her to go for new terms based on your new potential financial situation. But she said, and I quote, ‘let him have what he wants.’”

  “I knew she would,” said Todd, who had known nothing of the sort. “Goodbye, Mr. Coughlan.”

  “I’ll send the documents—” Coughlan began.

  “No,” said Todd. “I’ll swing by in the morning and sign them in your office.”

  “Okay then,” said Coughlan. It was the first time Todd had ever heard him sound surprised.

  * * *

  There was a bar across the street from the motel. It wasn’t very nice, but it was warm and there were people in it. Todd went in, sat down, ordered a beer and a whiskey, and stayed there until he was warm enough, and drunk enough, to go back to his room, where he fell asleep on the counterpane, woke up in the early hours, went to the bathroom, and—unable to find the bed again—stumbled into the armchair and fell asleep in that instead.

  Todd woke up with a hangover and a renewed sense of resolve. He showered, if that was the right word for standing under a kind of spitting metal tube with a sprinkler attached to it, pulled a clean shirt from his grip, and drove down to Coughlan’s office.

  “He’s expecting me,” Todd told Coughlan’s secretary Gillian.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  “I spoke to him late last night,” said Todd.

  Gillian looked as though she were about to say something about that, but didn’t. Instead she said, “Well, there’s nothing in the diary.”

  Just then Coughlan came in.

  “I beat you to the office,” said Todd.

  “Milstead?” said Coughlan. “What brings you here?”

  Todd looked around for a witness to this new-minted madness.

  “Is there an epidemic of amnesia around here?” he asked. “I told you on the phone last night that I was coming over.”

  Coughlan exchanged a look with Gillian.

  “Hold my calls,” he said.

  Todd followed Coughlan into his office.

  “Hold his calls,” he said, and winked at her. Todd felt good to be alive.

  Once the door was shut, Coughlan said, “What the hell are you playing at, Milstead?”

  Now Todd was confused. “I told you,” he said. “We spoke on the phone last night.”

  Coughlan looked blank.

&nb
sp; “Never mind,” said Todd. “Now shall we get to it?”

  “I’m sorry, Milstead, I’m really not with you. Get to what?”

  Todd sighed deeply.

  “The settlement,” he said. “Or whatever you lawyers call it.”

  “Your divorce papers, you mean?” said Coughlan.

  “Yes,” said Todd. “Finally. I’m here to sign the papers. Like we discussed.”

  Coughlan looked genuinely puzzled now.

  “You want to sign the papers?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Todd. “Like I said on the phone last night. Janis agrees, I agree, so let’s sign and I will move out like I said last night. On the phone.”

  Coughlan was about to say something, when his expression changed. He affected a businesslike face.

  “Normally in a situation like this, I’d ask if you’d been drinking,” he said. “But it’s too early even for you.”

  “Nice,” said Todd. “Now please can I sign the damn papers?”

  Ten minutes later, Todd had signed everything.

  “Don’t you want to read it first?” Coughlan had asked.

  “No need,” said Todd.

  Coughlan handed Todd his copy of the documents.

  “And you’ll move out of the house?”

  “Ahead of you,” said Todd. “Already did.”

  Coughlan looked shocked. Call me Speedy, thought Todd.

  “Okay,” he said, and held out his hand for Todd to shake. Todd thought about thumbing his nose, but went for the polite option and shook.

  “See you ’round,” he said, and breezed out of the office.

  * * *

  “He signed it?” said Gillian.

  “Like a lamb,” said Coughlan.

  “Why did he keep saying you called him last night?”

  Coughlan grimaced. “Who cares? Maybe he’s lost his fucking mind as well as everything else.”

  * * *

  Todd drove back to the motel, the divorce papers on the seat beside him. For a moment he considered pitching the envelope out the window, but then thought, Nah. Call ’em a souvenir of unhappier times. Besides, you never knew with lawyers. Coughlan might try and trip him up on some fine detail of law, and it would be good to have the facts at his fingertips.