by Daniel Depp
‘Jerry Margashack has served the function God had for him in my life, and I have no need or wish to think of him any more than I need to, which is why your being here and asking these questions is so pointless and upsetting. What God does with him now is none of my business. Jerry carries around his own Hell, Mr Spandau. You’ve seen this if you know him. He doesn’t need me to find him ways to suffer.
‘Does this answer your questions? Because I’m going to have to insist you leave now. You want to help Jerry, he’s your problem now and not mine. I won’t waste any more of my life on it.’
Spandau stood up. ‘I thank you for your time.’
‘I want you to know I didn’t do this for you, and I certainly didn’t do this for Jerry. I did it for Michael. He does love Jerry and he’s always seen something in him I could never find. But I’ve done my favor and I won’t do it again. You think I’m a hard, cold woman, Mr Spandau?’
‘I think you’re trying to make sense of the world just like the rest of us, Miss Hamlin.’
‘My grandmother back in Kentucky used to say, “Honey, you better have long arms if you’re going to dance with the Devil.”’ Rebecca held up her arms, shook them like a revival singer. ‘These arms ain’t nearly long enough, Mr Spandau. Nobody’s ever are. Not mine, not Jerry Margashack’s, not even yours. You remember that.’
Her arms fell to her sides. She looked at Spandau for a moment. There was no trace of emotion, it was as if she’d emptied herself and there was nothing left. She simply turned from him and walked away, slowly climbed the stairs to her room.
FIFTY-ONE
In the yard the boy was playing again in the sand. Michael sat a few feet away in a rusty metal lawn chair, smoking a pipe.
‘You get what you wanted?’ the priest said.
‘More or less.’
‘You believe now she’s got nothing to do with all this?’
‘I believe she’s not the one trying to smear him,’ Spandau said, ‘but I wouldn’t exactly say she’s got nothing to do with it. I have a feeling that if you’d come clean I could wrap this whole thing up and get back to my own screwed-up life.’
‘You give me too much credit,’ the priest said around the stem of his pipe.
‘You seem to be having this identity crisis about whether you’re actually God or just some guy who works for him. I’m sure you think there’s this elderly wisdom to what you’re doing, but all it is really is just arrogance and monkeying around with people’s lives. I don’t mind so much you having me kidnapped, but I’m tired and I feel stupid and that does bother me.’
‘Why don’t you go back and talk to Jerry. Tell him you were here. Tell him what you know.’
‘You haven’t said anything?’
‘I don’t expect you to see it,’ said the priest, ‘but there is a process unfolding here and it’s taken nearly sixteen years to happen. God takes His own time and uses whoever He feels. I admit I meddled a little in Cheney but it was a well-intentioned mistake. I didn’t see the point in opening up this can of worms but you’ve got it rolling and now it has to be played out. I’m on the sidelines until I get a clear signal from the coach.’
‘You don’t know how strange it is,’ said Spandau, ‘watching you jump back and forth between playing Spencer Tracy in Boy’s Town and Pat O’Brien as Knute Rockne. A real priest mimicking movie Catholics is just about as postmodern as I can stand.’
‘They made real movies in those days.’
‘Not like the sort of stuff Jerry makes?’
The priest made a face.
‘Jerry’s films never interested me. The world doesn’t need one more movie about how bad things are. It’s not true anyway, it’s just an easy lie. The world is full of people who are trying to do the right thing. That’s how we survive from day to day. Take a drive on any LA freeway and then tell me you have no faith in the prevalence of human goodness. You wouldn’t be there if you didn’t. Well, the whole of life is like that.’
‘What about original sin and all that?’
‘There you go again,’ said the priest, ‘talking about things you know nothing about. Leave the theology to the people who get paid for it. Believe me, you don’t really need to know how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Just worry about getting through your day doing as little harm as possible. That will keep you busy enough.’
‘This the sort of pep talk you give to Jerry?’
‘Jerry’s like you are, always has been. Never listens to a damned thing. He’s got to find everything out for himself. I can’t tell you how exhausting it is to watch someone try to reinvent the wheel every day of their life. Meanwhile I take it that now you know the truth you’re still not dropping the case?’
‘I don’t know,’ Spandau said. ‘Should you try to save someone who probably doesn’t deserve to be saved?’
‘This is where your own arrogance comes in. This talk of saving someone. That’s not up to you. Just follow your own conscience and let God take care of the rest of it. If He needs your help, He’ll ask for it.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Spandau. ‘What is it that you see in him all these years? I can’t think of a less likely candidate for salvation.’
‘A good number of the saints,’ said the priest, ‘weren’t exactly model citizens. It’s never too late. I’ve seen a lot worse than Jerry ask for forgiveness.’
‘Not from her,’ said Spandau, nodding to the house. ‘And I don’t blame her.’
‘That would just be one more thing,’ said Michael, ‘that you don’t have a clue about. I could start making a list for you, if that would help.’
The boy came over with a toy steam shovel, handed it to Michael. A small pebble had jammed the bucket arm. The priest took out a pocketknife and patiently worked it loose.
‘You going?’ the boy asked Spandau.
‘Yes sir, I am.’
‘My mom don’t like you.’
‘This is a problem I’ve frequently encountered,’ said Spandau.
‘I don’t think you’re too bad though,’ Mikey said and patted him on the arm.
‘You’ll see Jerry when you get back?’ asked the priest.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Be sure to tell him I said to roll up his sleeves and get to work.’
‘Is this supposed to make some kind of sense?’
‘Never you mind. Just tell him. He’ll know what I’m talking about.’
‘You’re very peculiar old man,’ said Spandau, ‘if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Spandau opened the gate, went out. He turned and said, ‘How many angels can dance on the head of a pin, anyway?’
‘Three,’ said the old man without missing a beat, ‘but only if they diet.’
FIFTY-TWO
Spandau stood outside the door of Jerry’s cottage. He could hear music inside. He knocked. Nothing, but the music went silent. He knocked again, louder. Nothing.
‘Jerry, open the door. It’s me, David.’
A hesitation before the door opened, while Spandau could feel Jerry standing on the other side of it, trying to make up his mind. Then Jerry appeared, beaming, a glass of scotch in his hand.
‘Why, David Spandau, as I live and breathe,’ he said in a mock-Dixie accent. ‘Home from the wars are we? Is it true that mo’fucker Sherman burnt Atlanta? Or are the darkies finally in revolt?’
‘Cut the shit, Jerry.’ Jerry didn’t invite him in, just stood there, smiling. Spandau pushed past him and into the room.
‘Oh my my, who got his tail caught under a rocker?’
‘I’ve been calling you all day. I’ve left messages on your cell phone, at the desk. The hotel says you’ve checked out. This doesn’t appear to be true.’
‘Working on a new screenplay. Needed a little artistic space. Nothing personal.’
‘How’s this for personal? I just got back from a long talk with Rebecca Hamlin. I met your son too, by the way.’
Jerry tried to keep that smile going b
ut couldn’t manage it. It wobbled for a moment and then fell apart altogether. He stood there blinking, looking up at Spandau, and his eyes changed and his shoulders fell as if the sand were running out of his body.
‘Well,’ said Jerry.
He gently closed the door, drained his George Dickel, went over and poured himself another. Sank that one. Poured another.
‘How are they?’
‘They appear to be well. You’re not exactly a favored topic of conversation though. But I’m sure you know that.’
‘The old man there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He the one who sold me out?’
‘No,’ said Spandau. ‘He even had your hometown constabulary rough me up a little to scare me off. He’s convinced you’ve got a soul worth saving. My opinion is pretty much the same as Rebecca’s. I think you’re a miserable shitass who probably ought to be put down like a rabid dog. I wouldn’t mind doing it myself. Nothing personal, of course.’
‘You think she’s the one sending out all this stuff?’
‘She was the logical choice. But it’s not her. She despises you, but she’s shooting for less, not more. She doesn’t think you’re worth the energy it takes to keep hating you. Now that you and I are pals I can see her point. Anyway there’s nothing in it for her, no real motive. She’s got what she needs from you, she doesn’t have to force it.’
‘They get everything when I’m dead, you know. They get everything.’
‘Everything meaning whatever is left over after drink, drugs, gambling, whores, and rape, and whatever other clever devices you can come up with to make the world a better place. I swear to god, Jerry, you are that mythical creature mankind has been waiting for, a one-man pestilence. Who the hell needs locusts or cholera when they’ve got you? One suggestion. Make some money first, then die. Cut them a break for once.’
‘If that’s what you came here to tell me, it’s a waste of time. You’re preaching to the choir. You’re not saying anything I don’t already know. The irony is, I’d have snuffed myself a long time ago if it hadn’t been for them, knowing I had to keep going so they’d be okay. I’ve always managed to take care of them, get them what they need. They never lacked for anything, even if I had to scramble for it. They’ve kept me alive. Miserable, you’re right. But alive.’
He rubbed his arms through the long-sleeved shirt. Turned to pour yet another drink. Said over his shoulder,
‘Speaking of sucking down a bullet, I was real sorry to hear about your boss.’
Spandau grabbed him by the shirt collar and threw him backwards across the room. He hit the room-service cart and both went over with a great crash.
‘You son of a bitch,’ said Spandau. ‘He’s dead and you’re alive.’
Jerry got to his feet, stood there waiting for Spandau to come at him. Spandau didn’t.
‘Come on,’ said Jerry, smiling. ‘Come on.’
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ Spandau said to him. ‘That going to make you feel better, me beating the crap out of you? That going to ease your guilt a little, get you through your night?’
‘You and your fucking high horse,’ said Jerry. ‘You’re a fucking joke. I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but the fact is you’re still a lowlife cocksucker people like Jurado hire to peek through keyholes. They pay you to do their shit work. That’s the fucking purpose of your existence, and you know it.’
‘I’m not going to play, Jerry,’ Spandau said. ‘I quit. I’m out of here, case closed, gone. Rebecca is right. You’re not worth the powder it would take to make the hole in your head.’
Spandau went toward the door. Jerry moved in front of him, put his hand against Spandau’s chest and pushed him back.
‘Come on, cowboy,’ said Jerry, smiling. ‘Do something. Stop talking. Show a little balls.’
He pushed Spandau again. Spandau took a few steps back, out of Jerry’s reach.
‘Not going to happen, Jerry,’ Spandau said. ‘You don’t get off that easy.’
‘You’re not so hard to figure, cowboy,’ said Jerry. ‘You talk a good game. Fucking Gary Cooper, the honorable type in a morally ambiguous world. In itself a fucking cliché. Then you use it to try and cloud the fact that what you do is essentially pretty sleazy.’ The fake southern accent again. ‘Why, Mr Spandau, I do believe you’re nothing but a dick-licking lowlife toady just like the rest of us.’
Jerry moved forward, Spandau moved back. Jerry stopped. Smiled, waited, rubbing his arms furiously.
Spandau watched him. He’d noticed it before, passed it off as a rash or nervous tic. It could have been anything. Spandau said,
‘Michael said to tell you it’s time to roll up your sleeves and get to work.’
The rubbing stopped as Jerry suddenly became aware of his hands. Jerry lowered his head, smiled, held his hands palms up in a gesture of surrender.
‘The old bastard,’ Jerry said, shaking his head.
‘Let me see them, Jerry.’
Jerry stood there, smiling, looking at the floor. Spandau came forward, slapped him.
‘Come on, Jerry. Let me see your arms.’
Nothing.
Spandau slapped him again. Jerry’s head rolled to one side, he moved it back to look at the floor.
‘Let me see them,’ Spandau said.
Another slap.
‘Come on. Let’s see what it is you’re hiding. Or do you like getting slapped around too much? This is what you like, isn’t it? This is what makes you feel better.’
He looked up at Spandau. There was no smile, nothing but an empty face. Jerry unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up one by one. They were old scars, not new, and covered both arms like an irregular pattern of armor woven just beneath the skin, from wrists to where they disappeared into the turned-back cloth. Small tiny even craters that could only have been cigarette burns. Thin stripes of various lengths, razor or knife. It must have taken years.
Spandau looked. He went over and poured himself a drink while Jerry rebuttoned his shirt. Spandau sat down on the couch.
‘You poor pathetic son of a bitch.’
‘I was young,’ said Jerry. ‘Eventually I figured out that booze, drugs, and women could do a better job, if you were careful about your choices.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Spandau, shaking his head incredulously. ‘I should have seen it. It was right there all the time. I should have seen it.’
Jerry refilled his drink. Flopped down in a chair across from Spandau.
‘Why?’ asked Spandau. ‘You want to fuck up your life, your career, there are simpler ways. You’ve been trying most of them.’
‘I don’t expect you to understand. Anyway it doesn’t make a goddamned bit of difference if you do. I didn’t hire you.’
‘Yeah, but you knew Jurado would. He had to protect his investment. I can’t figure out who you wanted to damage most, yourself or Jurado.’
‘Jurado is a shit, and it’s a shit film, I don’t care how many fucking awards they want to give it. It was a good script when he got it and it could have been something I could have been proud of. But it’s not, and it’s the first time in my life I ever sold out. Really just sold my fucking soul. But I’m getting old, and I’m tired, and there was Becky and the boy. There was all that. I was hoping the film would never get made, I’d just take my money and slink away. But shit sells. I’d forgotten that. The only time I ever made a film I wasn’t proud of and it’s my biggest hit. How’s that for irony?’
‘Why go to such lengths to fuck it up? Why not just take your money and walk away? Anyway, you get a hit and you’re back in the game, the next film you can make the way you want.’
‘Because it was wrong. It was all wrong, and from so many angles. It was wrong everywhere. I don’t know if it was God. I don’t even think I believe in God. But the whole thing did smell like divine retribution to me. God just sitting there laughing at me until I had to take matters into my own hands. It was beautiful. You believ
e in fate?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s all about fate, the whole fucking thing. I don’t know if I can explain this.’
‘Try.’
‘There was nothing else I could do. I couldn’t say or do anything against the film. Jurado has me tied up seven ways to Sunday, I’ve signed shut-up clauses up the ass. I’d get sued, I’d never get my money, the whole thing. I have to do something, I have to stop this thing. This fucking abomination. This fucking travesty. I have to find some way to try and save my soul, because if this thing is a hit … I mean, I can’t live in a world like that. You know what I mean?’
‘I think so.’
‘I figure the only way I can slam the picture is if I slam myself. Shit starts coming out about me, maybe public opinion changes about the film, maybe Jurado won’t back it. If this film won an Oscar … I mean, I can’t think of it, it’s too horrible. What if it won an Oscar? What if I fucking won an Oscar? What if this fucking shit piece was the one thing people remembered me for?’
He stopped. Shook his head as if trying to clear it.
‘I know this guy, name of Malo. Slick smart black dude. A fixer. You know the type. Knows everybody, connected everywhere. You want a kilo of Thai heroin or an unregistered howitzer or your deadbeat brother-in-law shoved off the top of the Roosevelt Hotel, he knows somebody who knows somebody. He hired this guy to break in here and lift some files off my computer. Part of my memoirs.’
‘Memoirs?’
‘Well, some stuff I planted anyway. I told him they were memoirs.’
‘So the information’s not true, then?’
Doesn’t answer.
‘Is the information true?’ Spandau asked again.
‘I couldn’t give them lies,’ Jerry said. ‘The second anybody from the press got hold of this they were going to check it. They couldn’t actually print anything from the files, but it gave them enough they could follow up, and there’s no way they could trace it to me.’