Carrion

by Gary Brandner

  “Sure, we’ll do lunch sometime.”

  “What about me?” Jillian said, smashing the unaccustomed cigarette into an ashtray. “Are your new friends going to take care of me, too?”

  “Damn it, Jill, this is business. What do you want to give me a hard time for?”

  “I just want to know where I stand.”

  From across the room Echols called, “Mac, can we move it along? Jesse’s ready for you.”

  Fain gave him a wave and turned back to Jillian.

  “Look, I’ve got a hundred things going at once here. Why don’t I give you a call later.”

  Jillian stood up and faced him levelly. She said, “Fuck you, Mac.”

  Fain stared as she walked out with Barry Lendl. It was the first time in their three-year relationship that he had heard Jillian actually use the F word. The door closed behind her with a solid chunk.

  “Mac, are you coming?” Echols called across the room. “Jesse’s got another appointment at two.”

  “Yeah,” Fain said, still looking at the door where Jillian had gone out. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  • • •

  Jesse Cadoret was a lean young man with seriously receding hair that he wore cropped and brushed forward. He positioned Fain in the center of the room, then stood back and studied him with one hand cupping an elbow and the fingers of the other playing with his mustache.

  “Wardrobe,” he said, and made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “Those clothes will simply have to go.”

  Fain looked down at his hopsack jacket, open-collar shirt and gray Sansabelt slacks. “What’s the problem?”

  “Too laid-back. Too California. People aren’t going to take you seriously if you come on looking like a dressed-up beach bum.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Earth tones. Dark colors. Plain shirts and tasteful neckties.”

  “I never wear neckties.”

  “You can learn. And for heaven’s sake get rid of those awful Hushpuppies and put on some nice sincere wing tips.”

  “Wing tips,” Fain repeated doubtfully.

  “Don’t worry; you won’t have to shop for them yourself. I’ll give Warren Echols a list, and he’ll have somebody pick out everthing for you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Now, about that haircut.”

  Fain ran a hand over his shaggy hair. “A little long, I guess.”

  “A little? It’s strictly 1970s. The neat look is in, if you haven’t heard.”

  “I feel so out of it.”

  “Yes. You don’t wear glasses, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. They would definitely not suit what we want you to be.”

  Fain rubbed his jaw. “Somebody suggested a beard.”

  Jesse pinched his eyes together as in pain. “Oh, Lord, a beard, he says. I’ll just bet a woman suggested that.”

  “As a matter of fact it was.”

  “I knew it. For your face, never. With your long, narrow jaw, you would look like Mephistopheles. Hardly the look we’re shooting for.”

  “A mustache, maybe?”

  “Sleazy riverboat gambler.”

  “Another wrong look.”

  “You’re catching on.”

  Jesse Cadoret examined his thin gold wristwatch. “This will have to do for a starter. I’m due at CBS to try to make a soap-opera star into a macho adventure hero. A Herculean task, I’ll tell you. See you again. Ta-ta.”

  “Ta-ta,” Fain said to the man’s retreating back.

  As the image specialist went out, Warner Echols came in, accompanied by a hard-breathing fat man with an attaché case.

  “Mac, this is Nolan Dix. He has the papers for you to sign that will make you officially a Federated Artists client.”

  Fain shook the attorney’s plump hand and looked over the thick contract without really absorbing it. “I’d like a little time to study this.”

  “Time is money, Mac,” Echols said. “I don’t want to rush you, but F-A has already started the moves on your behalf. It would be a shame to shut down now. This is our standard client’s contract. All it does is legalize a working agreement between us for one year with options for another five. We guarantee you our full services for twenty percent of what you earn through our joint efforts.”

  “Twenty percent? What ever happened to ten?”

  Echols smiled indulgently. “Mac, Mac, ten percent went out with the dollar martini. Remember, we aren’t merely providing you representation; we are taking charge of your future. Federated Artists has faith in you. We believe you are going to be a huge success with the proper guidance, and F-A can provide that guidance. We’ll manage your whole career — take the difficult decisions off your back, warn you about the pitfalls, pull you out of jams.”

  “And choose my clothes.”

  Echols smiled. “Sure. Find you a girl if you want us to. Or whatever your taste.”

  “Quite a service.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. So if you just want to sign the papers now …”

  Fain accepted a platinum Cross pen and signed his name repeatedly as Nolan Dix wheezed and flipped the pages for him.

  When he had finished, the attorney stuffed the contract back into his attaché case. “A pleasure to have you with us, Fain,” he said. “Wish I had time to stay and talk, but you know how it is — rush, rush, rush. Let’s do lunch sometime.”

  Warner Echols clapped an arm around Fain’s shoulder for a manly hug. “Way to go, Mac. Glad to have you on board. Now that you’re officially under the F-A wing, the first thing we’ll do is get you out of this hotel.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “It’s out, Mac. That’s what’s the matter with it. You said Barry Lendl booked you in here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It figures. Nobody stays at the Beverly Towers anymore, Mac, except washed-up stars trying to get a Love Boat walk-on and out-of-town book writers begging for a screenplay. It’s Loser’s City. A dump.”

  “You should see my apartment.”

  “We won’t even talk about that. No, what I have in mind for you is something special. It’s a house in the Santa Monica Mountains above Mulholland.”

  “A house?”

  “It’s owned by F-A. Do you know the name Walter Belmont?”

  “No.”

  “Not many people do today. He was a star in the early twenties, up there with Jack Gilbert and Wally Reid. He made a bundle and spent it, a lot of it building this house in the hills he called Eagle’s Roost. When the talkies came in, Belmont was finished. He had a voice like Bugs Bunny. He hit the needle, and the house went to pay debts to Arthur Garshied, who started Federated Artists in the thirties. It’s been with the agency ever since. We use it when it’s appropriate. For you the place is perfect. Great atmosphere. Completely furnished. You won’t have to bring a thing.”

  “Eagle’s Roost,” Fain said, testing the sound of it.

  “Corny but descriptive. You’ll look down on the whole city. There’s only one private road leading up there, so we can control the traffic. That’s where we’ll do interviews and picture layouts. And you can see your prospective clients.

  “Clients?”

  “People who want you to bring somebody back to life. We’ve already got a stack of letters at the office. We’ll help you go through them and pick some of the likelier candidates to come up — with media coverage, of course. Then you tell them for this or that reason you can’t help them, and we send them back down the mountain.”

  “Why can’t I help them?”

  “Hell, Mac, you don’t want to be put into a spot where you’re actually supposed to be raising the dead.”

  “Why not? I’ve been there before.”

  “Yes, but that was … I mean … we both know …”

  “I thought that was what all this was about — bringing dead people back to life.”

  “Well, on the surface, yes, but what it’s really abou
t, Mac, is money. You don’t have any objection to money, do you?”

  “No,” Fain admitted.

  “Well, then, it’s the peripherals we’re talking about here. Books, movies, personal appearances. One of our people has even come up with an idea for a music video. Don’t laugh; it could be a big money item.”

  “I’m not laughing,” Fain said.

  “Fine. Come on, I want you to meet Victoria Clifford. She’ll be your secretary, assistant, gofer, and anything else you want while we’re getting you under way. She’s good.”

  Echols led the way back to the crowded living room and tugged Fain along to where a tall woman with sleek brown hair and bright green eyes stood frowning at one of the prints hanging on the wall.

  “Victoria, this is McAllister Fain.”

  She extended a slim hand and said in a soft, husky voice, “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Fain.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “And you might as well call me Mac.”

  “Whatever you say … Mac.”

  Echols clapped his hands and rubbed them together enthusiastically. “Well, then, why don’t the three of us bail out of here and run up to Eagle’s Roost.”

  “Should I pack my things?” Fain said.

  “We’ll have somebody take care of that for you,” Echols told him. “You’re with F-A now, Mac, and you don’t have to concern yourself with bothersome details. Shall we go?”

  Victoria linked her arm through his, and they started out. At the door they were met by Ivy Hurlbut, carrying a manila folder and looking puzzled.

  “What’s going on, Mac?” she said. “I just saw Barry downstairs.

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Fain said.

  Ivy held up the folder. “I was hoping we could go over my outline for the Bantam thing.”

  “Well …”

  Echols spoke up. “Look, Mac, F-A has writers already working on a book. It’ll be hardcover and under your name. There’s a movie deal in the works, so I think we’d better not screw it up.”

  Fain spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Ivy.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “That’s it? You’re sorry?”

  “Mac, there’s a car waiting.”

  Victoria squeezed his arm and let her sleek hip brush against him.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, and left Ivy looking after him, the folder forgotten in her hand.

  Chapter 17

  “I’ve got to go,” said Peter Maylon.

  “No” she complained.

  “Really.” He struggled to pull free of Leanne Kruger’s surprisingly strong grasp.

  “Why do you have to go so soon? You’ve only just come.”

  “Please.”

  “That’s a play on words, doctor.” She was taunting him now. “Don’t you think it’s funny?”

  “I don’t think any of this is funny. Please let go of me.”

  “Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just squeeze and squeeze until I pull it off.” She tightened her grip around his limp organ. “I could keep it with me to fill me up while you’re not here. What about that, doctor?”

  “I don’t like it when you talk that way.”

  “Oh? Do I bruise your little sensibilities? All right, then, darling, I won’t talk naughty anymore if you don’t want me to. Okay?”

  She held on a moment longer, then released him. He climbed hurriedly out of the bed, reaching for his scattered clothes. The cloying smell of her perfume was heavy in the still air.

  Leanne lay with the sheet over her lower body, watching him. Her pale skin was luminous in the dim light of the bedroom.

  “You don’t seem as … enthusiastic as you were at first,” she said. “I’m beginning to wonder if you really like me.”

  Maylon buckled his pants and sat on a chair to put on his shoes. He said, “I’m trying to think of some way to say this that doesn’t sound like a cliché, but there doesn’t seem to be any. We’ve got to stop doing this, Leanne. It’s wrong.”

  “Oh? And I was so sure we were doing it right.”

  “Stop playing. You know what I mean.”

  “How very moral you’ve become, doctor,” she said.

  “I suppose that’s the way it sounds, but this has bothered me from the beginning. It goes against everything I believe in — my oath as a doctor, my religion, my marriage vows. I know how it sounds, bringing all that up right after we’ve … we’ve …”

  “Fucked,” she prompted.

  “We should never have started, but I was weak. Now it’s got to end. I love my wife, Leanne. I love my little girl. I can’t look either of them in the eye.”

  “Your wife doesn’t suspect, does she?”

  “No, but she knows something is troubling me. God, she’d have to be blind not to know.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it unless she finds out for sure. And there’s no way she could do that, is there? Not unless somebody tells her.”

  Maylon stopped with his shirt buttoned up halfway. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “Me? Darling, why on earth would I do a thing like that? I mean, it would finish everthing you and I have together, wouldn’t it. And I certainly don’t intend to let that happen.”

  He made a little moaning sound deep in his throat. She reached out for him, but he moved out of her grasp.

  “Poor Peter,” she said with exaggerated sympathy.

  “That’s not all that worries me,” he said.

  “Tell me about it, darling.”

  “There’s something wrong with you, Leanne.”

  She snapped to a sitting position in the bed. Her eyes flashed. “That’s not true! I’m all right!”

  “You’re not all right,” he said, his voice calmer now. “At first I wasn’t sure, but it becomes more evident every day. It’s in your eyes, your skin texture.” He reached over and snapped on a lamp on the bedside table. “Look at you.”

  “Turn that off!” she snapped, and lashed out with her hand, knocking the lamp to the floor.

  The light from the naked bulb, shining up at them, gave their faces a satanic cast. Maylon reached down and picked up the lamp, snapping it off as he replaced it on the table.

  “You see,” he said.

  “The light startled me, that’s all,” she said, but her voice still held the edge of hysteria.

  “No,” he said. “You’re not a well woman. I think it’s connected with the time you were …”

  “Dead? Is that what you’re trying to say? Well, I wasn’t dead. I was in a state of cryogenic suspension. There was no tissue damage afterward. No internal problems. You should know; you examined me yourself.”

  “You seemed all right at the time,” he said, “but I wasn’t allowed to do all the tests I wanted to. There has been a deterioration in your condition. I think it’s accelerating.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  “I’ll have to tell your husband.”

  “You’ll tell him nothing,” she snapped. “There is nothing wrong with me.”

  “Leanne, it’s no good denying it. All you have to do is turn on the lights and take a good look at yourself in the mirror.”

  She got out of bed and stood naked in front of him. Her body was smooth and pale in the dusk. The triangle of black pubic hair glistened with the juices of their coupling.

  “Look at me,” she said. “Just look and tell me if you see anything wrong.” He reached for the lamp.

  “No!” She slapped his hand away. “You don’t need that.”

  “You can’t keep it a secret,” he said.

  “Peter, if you say anything to Elliot, I’ll tell him you have been forcing your way into my bed and into my body.”

  “But it was you who — ”

  “Do you think he’ll believe that? I’ll tell him you gave me some kind of pill and climbed on top of me while I was unable to resist. I can make him believe me, Peter; you know I can.”

  “Yes, I suppose you can,” he said wearily.


  “And do you know what Elliot Kruger would do to you then, Dr. Peter Maylon? He would make you suffer in ways you’ve never imagined. And believe me, he has the resources to do it.”

  Maylon turned away from her. He knotted his tie without worrying about making the ends even and shrugged into his coat.

  Leanne came up behind him and ran a fingernail down the line of his backbone, making him shudder. “Same time tomorrow, doctor?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”

  “You’ve already seen, Peter. You’ll be here.”

  Maylon started out the door, then turned back. He said, “Why me, Leanne?”

  She smiled, her teeth glistening in the dusk. “Because you’re here, Peter, darling. Because you’re here.”

  He left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He could smell the woman on him. Moving swiftly, he descended the broad staircase and headed for the front door, hoping to be out and away without having to confront Elliot Kruger.

  “Doctor.”

  Too late.

  Maylon turned to face Elliot Kruger, who came toward him across the tile floor of the hallway. He needed a shave and seemed to walk more slowly than he had a week before.

  “I was expecting a report from you,” the old man said.

  “Your wife seems … a little undernourished, maybe, but all in all she’s doing well.” The words were like bile in his mouth.

  “I’m worried about her,” Kruger said.

  “Oh?” Maylon looked at his watch, edging toward the door.

  “Why don’t we go into my study.”

  Unable to think of a way out, Maylon nodded and followed Kruger into the book-lined room. He perched on the edge of a leather couch while Kruger took a chair facing him.

  “She’s been acting strange.” When Maylon did not respond, he went on. “She stays in the bedroom most of the time with the blinds drawn and the lights dim. She isn’t eating. She says things that aren’t like her at all.”

  “Your wife has been through a unique experience,” Maylon said.

  “I know that,” Kruger said impatiently. “But it doesn’t account for everything. My wife has spoken harshly to her maid, Rosalia. That girl loves her, and Leanne never before raised her voice. Also, not once has she asked what happened to her dog. That isn’t her. It simply is not like my wife.”