by Lee Thomas, Gary McMahon, S. G. Browne, Michael Marshall Smith
Not when that desire had become been pretty much all you are.
It was during the first steps down La Cienega, towards the evening and tomorrow's list of pointless meetings which I'd go to anyway, because that's what you do, even when you've realised there's no point, that I felt my heart break.
* * * * *
The first I knew about it was when I emerged from the elevator in the lobby of Ma Maison, and noticed a black-and-white sitting outside the main doors to the hotel. I was coughing wildly at the time – far too many cigarettes the night before - and heading for the Concierges' desk, where I was hoping to glom some information on how to get to the Paramount lot with as little grief as possible. I thought nothing about the police car beyond a twinge of voyeuristic curiosity – wonder who's been caught doing what? I was halfway across the lobby, about level with the huge flower arrangement, when all hell broke loose.
"Stay the fuck where you are!"
"Get your hands up! Police!"
Startled, I was turning to see who was being screamed at, hoping I wasn't in the line of fire, when something heavy sent me thudding into a marble pedestal.
A sharp pain cracked across my face and shoulders as I collided with it. Then I was engulfed by the combined shattering and rustling of two hundred dollars' worth of flowers, and a huge vase, hitting the floor.
I've been shot, I thought. Jesus.
I got a wipe pan of shocked faces as I tried to yank my face up from the floor, and then my head was shoved back down again. I managed to avert my face just in time, and felt my right cheekbone crack with the cold floor. I assumed someone had come up behind me, and was keeping my head down to prevent me from getting in the way of another shot. They say that you don't feel a bullet, not immediately, and I was wondering if I'd been hit, and how badly. I was suffused with vertiginous disbelief, a feeling of being plunged into the kind of situation I'd assumed only happened to characters in films and books.
Though my face and chest hurt, there didn't seem to be blood jetting out of any part of my body. As the initial shouts and screams died down to coos and whispers, I realised the person who'd pushed my head down was sitting on my back, yanking my arms around behind me.
Twisting my eyes forward I could now see the legs of a policeman, standing about two yards in front.
Behind him I saw the day Concierge, an elegant Latino woman. She normally favoured me with an efficient smile, recognising me as someone who would always need advice on how to get somewhere. Now she was staring at me as if I were an unpredictable household pet. So were the other occupants of the lobby. None seemed to be taking cover from anyone any more.
"Try anything," a brutal voice snarled into my ear, from very close range, "And you won't make it to the precinct. Understand? Don't you try a fucking thing."
His breath was hot in my ear. Suddenly I was back on my feet again, and I realised the guy on my back was a policeman, that my hands had been cuffed, and that something very bad indeed was going on.
"What's happening?" I asked, shakily. My face hurt all over, and I was scared shitless now.
"Nick Williams?" the cop asked. I stared at him. He stared back, green eyes full of something very cold.
"Yes," I said. "What..."
"You're under arrest."
"For what?" I stammered, and the cop calmly backhanded me across the face. Meanwhile the one behind was yanking me back and forth, checking for weapons – which of course I didn't have.
"I'm going read you your rights," the first cop said, "During which time you're going to shut the fuck up, and then you're coming with us."
As he Miranda-ed me I merely blinked, nonplussed, aware of people around the edges of the lobby, staring faces, some of which I recognised from passing glimpses in elevators, the hotel bar, the sun deck. A terrible gout of shame suddenly cut through the confusion and pain, and I was seized with the need to signal to them that I wasn't suddenly different: that I was still the affable young man whom they'd nodded at, and bid good morning; that I wasn't guilty of anything.
But by then the cops were bundling me toward the main doors. The bellhops held them open, refusing to meet my eye. That, more than anything, brought home the reality of what was happening. These were friendly guys – the quality of the staff was one of the reasons I always stayed at Ma Maison. They smiled when they saw you, they recognised you from last time, and they held the door open with a grin when you came back from a meeting, regardless of how pointless it might have been.
But now it was like the police were just carrying a heavy carpet, something soiled, something their eyes skated over. I was swept out of the lobby and into humid warmth outside, then shoved into the back of the police car. The cop who'd cuffed me got in the back beside me, one hand firmly clamped around my arm. The other got in front, hit the siren, and pulled off at high speed.
"Look," I said. I was trying to sound calm. It didn't work. My voice was trembling as much as the rest of me. "What have I done?"
The cop used one hand to swivel me slightly away from him, and punched me very hard in the kidney.
I abruptly lost the will to live, and coughed wordlessly in pain. Then he grabbed my hair and banged my face into the back of the seat in front.
I slumped back, feeling warm liquid, blood, seeping out of my nose. The car was tearing down Beverley Boulevard, the driver keeping his eyes on the road. I took deep breaths, willing myself to become calm.
"Please," I said eventually. "Please will you tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done?"
The cop next to me laughed. The one in front grunted in counterpoint. I understood they were appreciating the humour of me denying what I had self-evidently done. They seemed very hyped up, excited, as if out on a limb, and I wondered if they were supposed to have made this arrest.
"Please," I said, trying not to snuffle, though enough blood had come out of my nose to start dripping off my chin. "What? What is going on?"
"You're under arrest," the cop next to me said, "For the murder of two women and a police officer. Now shut up before I do something you'll regret."
I turned slowly and stared out of the window.
* * * * *
The police station was much as you'd expect. I'd only ever seen them on the TV or cinema screen before, and it was kind of like that, only more crowded and noisier and far more scary. Also, in the cop shows people are generally dragged in to universal apathy. There was none of this when I was pulled in front of what I assume was a Desk Sergeant or whatever the American equivalent is.
"Wow," he said. "Now that's what I call a likeness."
I was hurriedly finger-printed and then hauled down a corridor and into a room, faces turning to watch me all the way. Some were just intensely curious. The cops amongst them looked actively frightening, however, and I wasn't surprised. From what I'd gathered, cops tend to take a very dim view of people who kill one of their own. I realised I was probably lucky to have made it to the station in one piece. It could only be because I was worth more to the arresting officers as a trophy collar than as a trophy dead person, or so my extensive third-hand knowledge of law and order (from books and the screen) suggested. That should have been comforting, but it wasn't. None of it was in the least bit comforting.
I was locked in the room with a huge cop standing in front of the door. At first I was worried that his job was to beat the shit out of me, but he just stood there, staring at me. My arms were still cuffed, which prevented me from doing the thing foremost in my mind – lighting a cigarette. In all the time since the sudden outbreak of nightmare in the Ma Maison lobby, I'd thought of only three things. Phoning my parents. Phoning my girlfriend. And having a cigarette. I had a pack in my jacket. Probably they were squashed flat, but I didn't care. I wanted one. So much so that I turned to the cop by the door and gathered
the courage to speak.
"Look," I said, and that's as far as I got.
"Shut the fuck up," the cop shouted, going from 0 to psycho-furious in no seconds flat.
I shut the fuck up. Probably I couldn't have had one anyway. The only thing on the bare walls of the room was a huge NO SMOKING sign. I'd assumed that cops all around the world smoked, but maybe in LA even they weren't allowed. Maybe in LA they all played racquetball instead.
Ten minutes later two policemen turned up. They were plain clothes, and from the way the cop in the door got out of their way I assumed at least one of them was pretty senior.
The taller of the two, a man in his late forties, with a charcoal grey suit and the most intimidating face I'd ever seen, sat down opposite me. The other, a stocky man wearing a shabbier suit, in a colour I'd have to describe as "tan," went and stood next to the window.
For a moment neither said anything. They simply stared at me. I had another wave of vertigo, as every crime novel I've read, and every thriller I've seen, came home to roost. The guy sitting in front of me, I guessed, was probably the Lieutenant. He had to be. Probably everyone called him "Loot", and he was firm but fair with his officers. The thug by the window, who looked like every maverick detective in every film I'd ever watched, was probably exactly that. Presumably had an ex-wife and a drinking problem and two daughters that he got on with surprisingly well. A 1980s-era James Woods could have played him perfectly, but now I guess you'd settle for a Mark Wahlberg or similar, or maybe take a chance and sign Robert Downey Jr. I suddenly felt eerily sure that the lieutenant – you would have cast Eastwood thirty years ago, or maybe saved some money and gone for Ed Harris, who could still do the job now – was going to offer me a cigarette. They stared at me a little longer, still looking angry. I wondered if this was down to the fact that a couple of beat cops had snapped me off the streets, instead of them.
Then the older one reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I thought I hid my happiness, but obviously I was wrong.
"What's funny?" the Detective snapped. "Believe me, asshole, there's nothing funny about the place you're in."
The Lieutenant meanwhile lit a cigarette, took a deep drag on it, and then went back to staring at me.
I looked down at the table, and silently rehearsed the available facts. The available fact, singular.
I wasn't guilty.
Whatever these guys had made me for, and however they'd reached that conclusion, I hadn't done it. I had to keep reminding myself of that.
I waited until I was calm enough for a stray thought to enter my head – one concerning the fact I was late for a meeting, and Jon would be getting annoyed – and then I looked back up.
"Would you please tell me," I said, for what felt like the hundredth time, "Why I'm here?"
Tan Suit laughed. The lieutenant kept staring, then got the pack of cigarettes out again, took one from the packet, lit it, and stuck it in my mouth.
I took a deep lug, and looked in the man's eyes to see that they looked very slightly friendlier.
"Thank you," I said. "You would be 'good cop', right?"
Both men's eyes flickered. I was horrified at what had just come out of my mouth. I was scared shitless, and my mouth was running off as if I'd suddenly become a minor character in a terrible television cop show.
"I know I'm supposed to have killed two women and a policeman,' I said, trying to raise my game. "One of the arresting officers told me, in between punches. The thing is... I haven't killed anyone."
The lieutenant just kept looking at me.
"I've been in LA four days," I said. "I'm a writer. I go to meetings and then I go back to my hotel where I read and eat room service and generally... uh, do that kind of thing." I was losing the thread of my argument. I was babbling. I couldn't remember what I'd been intending to say, and so I retreated to my core position. "I haven't killed anyone. Why would I do that?"
The Detective suddenly reached across, grabbed the cigarette from my mouth and hurled it into the wall. A small shower of sparks drifted down in the air.
"Mal Hopkins was a friend of mine, you cunt," he shouted.
The lieutenant held his hand up, and at that moment I really thought I'd lost it. They really were good and bad-copping me. This couldn't be happening. Way too much coffee with breakfast in my room, maybe, or a late burst jet-lag suddenly cutting in, or the weariness of my revelation on Sunset of the afternoon before just suddenly making everything seem like a tired joke.
It had to be something like that. This was too much like a dream, a string of cop clichés hacked together for my own mind for its amusement. Mind games with cigarettes. Nice Mr. Lieutenant, nasty Mr. Tan Suit. The cop who died being a friend of the scary cop. I couldn't have got away with writing this stuff. It was too formulaic to be true. Even Jon would turn his nose up at it.
"I didn't do anything," I said, again.
It was the one thing I was sure of, and I felt as though I might as well keep saying it.
The lieutenant reached into another pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it up, comparing it with my face, then laid it down on the desk. A flick of his wrist turned it round so I could see it. I couldn't say anything for about ten seconds.
"Jesus," I said, eventually. "That's me."
I looked up at the Lieutenant. He had a strange expression on his face. Then I looked back down at the picture. It was a photo-fit, but one subsequently tweaked by an artist to pull out eye-witness detail that a basic composite would have lacked. It showed a man with a goatee beard and a short pony-tail. A long nose, full lips, and bony cheeks. Not gorgeous, by any standards, but it was the best drawing of me I could imagine.
"Where's this from?" I asked.
"You don't deny it resembles you?" the lieutenant said.
I shook my head. "No," I said. "I mean, it's a perfect likeness."
The Detective made a dour, triumphal sound in the background, but his boss didn't take his eyes off my face. He picked up the drawing, looked at it, and me, one last time, and then returned it to his pocket.
* * * * *
They took me out of the room and down a corridor. At the end was a room in which another five men were standing. Some looked like criminals, others more like plainclothes cops. They were all roughly the same size and build as me, and a couple had goatees. A uniformed policeman roughly wiped the blood off the lower half of my face with a cloth, and then we were filed into another, smaller room, which had glass along one side.
I was in a line-up.
Jesus Christ.
I knew what was happening, and I still couldn't believe it. Someone on the other side of the glass would be looking for a man who looked like the one in the drawing I'd just been shown.
With a numbing sense of panic I realised that they would pick me out. They were bound to. The drawing looked exactly like me. How could they not pick me out?
We stood for a while, then a voice from a speaker in the ceiling asked us to turn to the right. We did so. Then, also on instruction, we turned to the left, before returning to facing the front again.
It took about ten minutes, and then we were led out and I was put back in the interrogation room again.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, the lieutenant came back. He was alone this time. He sat facing me, got out a pack of cigarettes and lit one for me, watching my face carefully. I took as deep a drag as I could, given that the cigarette was in my mouth and staying there, as my hands were still behind my back. I've never really got the hang of the no-hands school of smoking. The smoke gets in my eyes. I breathed out heavily, shakily.
"Thank you," I said.
"Looks like you needed that," he said, his hands flat on the table, keeping his eyes firmly on
me.
"Yes," I said, with smoker's ingrained defensiveness. "I needed that."
"How many do you smoke a day?" he asked.
I suspected I was being softened up for something, but this was the first civil conversation I'd had all day. "About twenty-five, thirty. Forty when I'm a trip like this. Hyped up, jet-lagged, too much coffee, stress, I wind up smoking a lot more."
He nodded, then reached across into my jacket pocket. He pulled out the contents – a duty free lighter and two packs of Marlboro Lights (the official cigarette of the entertainment industry), one of them half-empty. He placed all this in the centre of the table, like an exhibit.
"I assume the witness picked me out?"
"Yep," he said.
When he didn't say anything further, I tried speaking again. "And that wouldn't have had anything to do with me being the only person in the line-up with a bruised face?"
The lieutenant surprised me by smiling. I didn't know whether to smile back, so I didn't. Quite apart from anything else, my face genuinely hurt a lot.
"My name is John Considine," he said. "I'm a Lieutenant in Homicide. I'm telling you that so you know the name of the guy who's on this case. And believe me, I'm on this case."
"Okay," I said. I didn't know how else to respond. I was beginning to suspect that something very unpleasant must have happened to the two women and the cop.
"You were picked out of the line-up, right away and without hesitation. But as you've pointed out, your, uh, facial marking could have been a factor. That's untidy. It's one of three reasons you're sitting here and not in the tank with a bunch of guys who might want to curry favour with us by beating the shit out of a cop-killer."