Jove Brand is Near Death

by J. A. Crawford

  The peephole put Special Investigator Ava Stern in perspective, making her appear both close and far away. My first instinct was to let her knock. If she had a warrant, she would have kicked in the door by now. But the vans parked on the street were recording, so I let her in before the press could report I was refusing to talk to the police.

  Stern nodded toward the vans as she closed the door. “You’re drawing flies.”

  “They do love this crap. Gotta hit the bathroom. Lock the door, would you?”

  I turned my back on her and headed down the hallway. She would poke around, but there was nothing to find, which was maybe worth a few points in the Ken Allen Is Not the Killer column. My bladder was halfway empty when I caught the cracked door in the mirror.

  “Want to check before I flush?” I asked.

  “That and the toilet tank,” Stern replied.

  “You won’t find any gear. I don’t use it or move it.”

  “I could care less, Allen.”

  It was a believable enough lie. This Town ran on illegal performance enhancers and thermogenics. In the general sense Stern didn’t care, but in the specific one a drug charge would give the cops cause to shake my condo through a sifter. Should they find evidence of murder during said search . . . well what a happy accident that would be.

  I didn’t bother with a shirt. Stern couldn’t suspect a concealed weapon if there was nowhere to conceal one. “Water, coffee, low-carb smoothie?”

  “Gluten free?”

  “You roll this place, you won’t find a gluten.”

  “Then sure,” Stern said.

  I slammed sixteen ounces of water before starting on our smoothies, gathering everything I needed slow and easy with both hands in view at all times. Stern stood on the far side of the half-wall countertop, which didn’t quite hide her holster. In any other place she would have been tall, but here she was average height.

  Funny thing about This Town: Its giants lacked stature. Talent could be measured by the formula of success over inches. The farther a guy was from six feet while still being on top, the more impressive his résumé would be. That was for men. For women, it was years over twenty-five instead of inches under seventy-two.

  Stern was around my age and three fingers under my height. She didn’t have kids. Not with those lustrous locks—all hers, no extensions—which were a red that didn’t work on camera. Her eyebrows and skin tone confirmed it was her natural color. The faint lines around her eyes and corners of her mouth were signs she hadn’t had much work done. And no one would have chosen a nose with so much character. It would have pigeonholed you right from the start.

  My first impression was Stern displayed the right amount of effort: enough to care without looking like an experiment in cybernetics. To be fair, this was coming from a guy who was about to have back-to-back liquid meals. Still, the subject merited further study.

  Stern wrapped up her evaluation the same time I got done with mine, me pretending to be focused on blending the smoothies and her pretending to give a hoot. I wasn’t about to speak first. I didn’t have anything to say and had also spent enough time in Asia to know not to break the silence. She took me setting her smoothie on the half-wall as a sign.

  “I have some questions.” Stern watched my reaction as she took her first drink. “There’s no sugar in this?”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “The EP says he didn’t pass anyone coming down the stairs,” Stern said.

  “That’s not a question.”

  “Did anyone pass you on the stairs?”

  I shook my head.

  “You sure?”

  “I would have noticed.”

  “Yeah, it’s a tight squeeze.” Stern took another drink. She looked at the glass this time, like I was playing some kind of smoothie prank on her. “Heard you vaulted right up them.”

  “Sir Collin disappeared during a live broadcast. I was worried about him.”

  “Worried? Why?” Stern leaned in slightly, interested for the first time.

  “Sir Collin was a theater guy. If he missed the call, something was wrong.”

  “You and him close?”

  “The only conversation we ever had was minutes before in his dressing room.” I stared Stern straight in the eyes and told the truth. “I liked Sir Collin. I didn’t kill him.”

  “I didn’t say you did,” Stern replied. She was into the smoothie, despite herself, and stopped for more. “I spent my sack time learning all about Ken Allen.”

  “Always nice when a beautiful woman thinks about you in bed.” The words rushed out before I could stop them. Who knows where they came from? Too many movies, maybe. Or maybe I hoped Stern would interpret my frivolity as a sign of innocence. Either way, she didn’t budge an inch.

  “I wanted to know, why you? For Brand, I mean.”

  “Try JoveBrandFan.com,” I suggested.

  “I did.”

  “Then you know I wasn’t the first pick.”

  “Yeah, the first choice overdosed,” Stern said, “making you the only guy in Hong Kong who fit Brand’s description.”

  Stern left out that my also-ran died in the Ukraine, while I was in China. Still, it left me defensive. “Rumor has it same thing happened with Niles Endsworth. Sir Collin’s first successor committed suicide. Revealing Niles Endsworth on live television was damage control.”

  “If Layne Lackey is to be believed.”

  Taking a drink slowed my reply, but I had to get the mixture down before the oil in it separated. “As much as I hate to admit it, Lackey knows what he’s doing. If he wasn’t obsessed with Jove Brand he could be a real journalist.”

  “Being a big-time martial arts expert must have helped your chances, way back when.”

  “Placing third in forms didn’t exactly make me Chuck Norris.”

  “Third is something, for a white guy in Hong Kong.” Stern tilted her glass to toast me. “And you kept it up. Ken Allen, Sensei to the Stars.”

  I chugged the remainder of my smoothie. “My clients get to say Jove Brand trains them. I get to keep in fighting shape for a living.”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Stern commented. “There’s stage fighting and there’s real fighting. JoveBrandFan.com says you’re legit. Beat up an MMA pro in a bar three years back.”

  There was no point in denying it. That was the thing about fighting: Tell people you’re good and you’re full of yourself. Tell people you’re not and you’re humble-bragging. “It was a juice bar, and I wasn’t charged with anything. Also, he ended up in prison over what he did to that barista.”

  “It helped that someone put the video online. You rolled right over him.”

  I went to the sink to rinse out my glass. “Do something long enough, you get good at it.”

  “How good?”

  I scoped Stern’s casual but loaded stance, the state of her hands, forearms, and elbows. The fit of her slacks. The way her sidearm was holstered and its oversized trigger guard. Everything matched what I had guessed about her background.

  “Good enough to know you do Krav Maga.”

  Stern skipped a beat, her mouth open. It was the first genuine expression I got out of her. “That’s pretty good.”

  The compliment bounced right off me. Stern set down her empty tumbler and turned toward the living room. I washed her glass right away to keep from having to scrub it later. When I joined her, she was studying my shelves.

  “Movie buff,” Stern said. She was leaning forward a little, her jacket concealing whether her hand was on her service weapon.

  “No more than anyone else in This Town.”

  “Lots of noir.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You think I’ve been taking murder lessons?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.” Stern kept her left side—the side opposite her weapon—toward me. She traced the disk cases with the same hand, keeping it high in the event she had to clear or brace.

  “All the other Brand fil
ms, but no Near Death.”

  “If you saw it, you’d know why.” I sat down because there were no good places to stand. Stay on her left and I was blocking the door. Join her and I was inside her safety zone.

  “I started it in the car,” Stern said. “Don’t tell me how it ends.”

  “You’re watching it because you already know how it ends.” I kept my hands in my lap. Not behind my head or on the back of the couch or anywhere else where I could produce an Uzi.

  “I got it spoiled for me last night,” Stern admitted. “Kind of grisly for my tastes.”

  “Mine too, but Near Death was filmed right before the wirework revolution. The more graphic stuff was in back then. Tight-shot limb breaks, all that jazz. Kit Calabria asked me to come up with a finish with two beats. One move, space for a one-liner, then another move.” I shrugged with my palms up. “I was young.”

  “Kit Calabria was the producer?”

  What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I putting Kit on Stern’s radar? “And writer and director. His family owns the film rights to Jove Brand.”

  “Didn’t he die before Near Death was released?” Stern wasn’t writing anything down, which told me this wasn’t news to her.

  “His plane crashed, right after he delivered the reels.” The thing about old lies was that after a while, they felt like the truth. Sounded like it, too.

  “But that final sequence was your idea?”

  “Guilty,” I confessed. There was no point denying it. Along with the leading role in Near Death, I was also credited as fight choreographer. “But the sequence isn’t realistic. You know as well as I do there are more efficient techniques.”

  “Yeah,” Stern replied. She was checking for dust, noting what I’d recently watched. She stopped to read the back of the latest Niles Endsworth action vehicle. I really should have cleaned. “The killer must have wanted to make a statement.”

  “There are also less messy ways,” I said, holding up my hands.

  Stern looked past my hands at the rest of me. “Sir Collin rough you up? In his confusion, I mean.”

  I should have put a shirt on after all. “I had a private session this morning. My client likes to play rough.”

  Stern nodded absently as she looked around the room. “You into memorabilia?”

  “I do the convention circuit. Comic books, pop-culture shows. Take photos, sign stuff.”

  “There money in that, for a guy at your level?”

  “I don’t do it for the accolades. Anyway, people like to give you presents. If the fans found out you were selling or throwing stuff out, they’d revolt. It sort of piles up.”

  “All Jove Brand related?”

  “What else would it be? Model White Stags, replica Quarrelers, custom action figures. Some guy gave me a disturbingly photorealistic painting of me and Missy Cazale, sans clothing. You’d think he would have emphasized Missy, but I’m definitely the focus of the composition.”

  For the first time in a while, Stern stopped to study me. “How about gloves?”

  I didn’t like where this was going. “Gloves?”

  “That’s one of those things, isn’t it? Tropes or whatever. Like how Jove Brand always puts on gloves before the big chase scene.”

  “If you did motorcycle stunts you’d wear gloves too,” I replied.

  “Anyone ever give you gloves?”

  I searched my memory before answering. This was one of those moments you saw on true-crime shows. The suspect said no, he’d never worn gloves in his life, then later it’s revealed he had an extensive mitten collection. “In six years? I don’t know, maybe. I’d have to check.”

  “I could help you look,” Stern suggested. Her phone went off and kept me from making the horrible decision of accepting her offer. “Duty calls. Thanks for your time, Allen.”

  Stern’s fixation on handwear was wrinkling my brain. “You want a keto coffee for the road? I’m about to make one for myself.”

  Stern wanted to say no but remembered the smoothie. “What kind of butter?”

  “Scottish grass fed.”

  “How can I refuse?”

  Stern followed me to the kitchen. I was careful not to make any sudden movements while I ground the beans, pressed the brew, then blended the butter, vanilla, and cinnamon into it. I didn’t sweat losing a travel mug. I had the feeling this wasn’t the last time I was going to see her.

  During the whole process, Stern took more than one glance toward the side door, concerned she had triggered my flight response.

  “You found gloves,” I said.

  “In the alley next to the studio. Chamois lined with cashmere.”

  Jove Brand’s handwear of choice. I went to take a sip of coffee, but my hand was shaking a little, so I set the cup back down.

  “No getting prints off the insides of those.” Stern took a sip, her hand steady, and gave an appreciative nod. “That’s good coffee. Have fun in Fresno. Don’t leave the state, Mr. Allen.”

  3

  I spent the next week sneaking in and out of my own condo while ignoring my phone. Layne Lackey won the harassment award, calling or texting every two hours. Three years ago I’d experienced a brief resurgence of fame when the cell-phone video of my not-really-a-fight was posted online, but it was nothing compared to the attention I was getting now.

  No one outright called me a murderer, but they drew an outline a kindergartner could have colored in. I was the last person to talk to Sir Collin Prestor and the first person at the murder scene. None of the dozen witnesses who came up the stairway leading to the single door to the roof passed anyone coming down. The only notable event in my murky, violent past was failing at the role Sir Collin restored to worldwide acclaim.

  Then it leaked how Sir Collin was killed.

  No one knew for sure who broke the seal, though my guess was Beautiful Downtown Burbank’s executive producer. After the first trickle, the reports poured in. In true This Town fashion, new information was presented in a series of dramatic reveals. First, no murder weapon was found. Next, an unnamed source stated no murder weapon would be found because Sir Collin’s murderer had used their bare hands. Then half a dozen people came forward anonymously to confirm the nature of Sir Collin’s fatal injuries.

  The internet did the rest. Highlights of Near Death started trending on all platforms. The video clip of me as Jove Brand finishing off General Moon-Tzu got twenty-one hits a second for ninety-six hours.

  A micro-expression expert, whatever that was, broke down every second of Sir Collin and me on Beautiful Downtown Burbank’s stage frame-by-frame. That squint, right there, was the moment Ken Allen broke, they informed the host. When the corner of Ken Allen’s mouth turned down, he became a murderer. Ken Allen foreshadowed his intentions when he threatened Niles Endsworth’s eyes and throat on stage in front of millions, mere moments before the murder. Look at his sweat flow. Ken Allen was a man on the edge, and Sir Collin unwittingly pushed him off.

  Then the memes started, crafted from stills and GIFs ripped from Near Death. Montages of all the throat chops. Hard loops of gouging into chopping with blinking text displaying catchy phrases like Franchise Killer. Skillful photoshops of Sir Collin’s face pasted over General Moon-Tzu’s. A recut of Near Death’s chase scene with the words What’s next for Ken Allen captioned over it.

  My Wikipedia entry was edited every ten minutes. My profession kept getting changed to fugitive. Someone inserted a fake fight record of 1–0, with my lone win being over Sir Collin Prestor by fatality. A pro-wrestling fan listed my signature move as the “Eye-Gouge Throat Chop.” After the moderators locked it, my entry reverted to what Layne Lackey had written years back.

  Ken Allen is an American actor and martial arts expert, best known for playing Jove Brand in the foreign-only release Near Death.[1][2] Chosen for the famous role based on his strong resemblance to the character as well as his physical ability, Allen was an unknown at the time of his casting. A cultural oddity, Allen’s sole film cred
it to date is the lead role in one of the largest movie franchises of all time. He is also known as the Sensei to the Stars.[citation needed]

  While all that was true, it made my landing the part of Jove Brand come off as a Cinderella story. A triumph after a grueling audition process, instead of what actually happened. The truth was, I was the only warm body in Hong Kong who fit the bill. Kit Calabria was desperate.

  His first choice was dead of an overdose and no other actor would touch the role for fear of being blacklisted by the studios. Kit had thirty days to wrap production or lose the franchise his father had helmed for thirty years. Plain and simple, Near Death was an act of triage, an emergency procedure to stabilize the patient long enough to get them expert treatment. Kit and I kept the franchise alive. We did what we had to do and paid the price in full. His estranged sister, Dina, and Sir Collin restored it to health.

  Thanks to the social-media justice system, I lost two of five clients with no chance of replacing them. Reddit compiled a complete timeline that proved I definitely did it, along with a psychological profile cementing my motives. The conspiracy crazies pointed to my time in Hong Kong as evidence I was a foreign agent tasked with eliminating Sir Collin Prestor to tank the franchise so the Chinese film industry could take it over.

  I needed a lawyer but couldn’t afford one. Every media outlet you could think of wanted an interview. The offers for an exclusive were rapidly rising, but I knew better than to take the bait. Appearing on camera was profiting off Sir Collin’s death. It also looked bad, which was a distant second to my sheer disgust.

  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t afford to skip the convention in Fresno.

  I cleaned my condo like it was going on the market before performing a walkthrough worthy of a Brand film. Everything worth anything went in the attic. A ladder wouldn’t fit in the only closet with attic access. If you couldn’t do a muscle-up, you weren’t getting in there, and guys who sat in a van for a living couldn’t do a muscle-up. I took four-corner photos of each room, powdered every knob and pull. I passed a sleepless night staring at the ceiling. My condo wasn’t much, but it was all I had. It was going to hurt, coming home to find it in ruins.