Killercon

by William Ollie

  Zweitic held the knife up. “It does look real, doesn’t it?” he said, more a stated fact than a question.

  “Hell yeah it looks real. Look at that blade. Son of a bitch shines like it’s made outa steel.”

  “Steel, huh?” Larry drew another rolling paper from its package, pinched some more grass off a sticky green mound lying on the table and sprinkled it across the paper.

  “The blade bent when it hit you, Dude. Did you feel it stab you?”

  “The fuck, Dude, that fat fucker punched me so hard I didn’t know what the hell I was feeling.”

  “Did you think you were dying? ‘Cause you sure looked like you were dying when you hit the floor gasping like a fish.”

  Johnny Z chuckled, Larry sniggered, and they both started laughing.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yuk it up, ya fucking morons.”

  Larry twisted up a couple more joints, lighting one as Bree returned to the room and sat on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table. “Gracias amigo,” she said when Bryan handed her the smoldering joint. Then she brought it to her lips and took a toke, her chest heaving as the smoke rushed into her lungs; a thin string of it curling up past her face before floating toward a hazy cloud that was forming above their heads.

  A couple of joints later, Bree smiled up at Bryan and stretched her leg under the coffee table, nudging his foot with hers’. “You did look kind of funny down there.”

  “Aw, shit. Not you, too.”

  Johnny Z chuckled, and rubbed a hand across his flat stomach. “Anybody hungry?” he said. “Damn if this stuff ain’t giving me the munchies.”

  Bree sat up straight, brushing a strand of hair from the side of her face.

  “Geez,” Larry said. “I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t wanta derail the buzz we’ve got going here.”

  Bryan shrugged while Johnny Z nodded his apparent agreement.

  “And I’ve got just the thing to take our minds off food,” Larry said. “Don’t I, Sister Sarah?”

  “Uh huh!” Bree reached into her front pants pocket, pulled out a baggy twisted into a tight white ball and tossed it onto the table.

  “Jesus fuck,” Zweitic said. “The hell’d you get all this shit, somebody pimping it in the lobby or something?”

  “Nah,” Larry said. “We smuggled it in.” He twisted loose the thin metal tie securing it and dumped half the bag’s contents onto the glass tabletop. Then he picked up the small plastic box that had contained his rolling papers and dumped a single-edged razorblade and a small length of plastic drinking straw beside the cocaine; picked up the razor and began chopping and dividing until the coke lay before them in eight thick lines.

  “Boy, have you got a huge set, smuggling that shit on the airplane.”

  “Yeah, right,” Bree said, and then looked up at Larry, who looked at Bryan and shrugged.

  “What?”

  Larry leaned over the table, put the straw to his nose and snorted his lines, raised his head and handed the straw to Bryan.

  “I’m the only one with a set of balls around here,” Bree said, smiling.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, well,” Larry said. “She’s got us there, Johnny Z. We sure didn’t have nerve enough to pull it off.”

  “Well, then,” Zweitic said, and looked at Bryan, who had just vacuumed up a line of coke. “My apologies, K-man. Both you guys are pussies.”

  Bree sprang to her knees, leaning across the table and high-fiving Zweitic as Bryan tossed the straw to the table. “You said it, brother.”

  “Yeah, well,” Bryan said, while Bree snatched the straw and zeroed in on the coke. “She owed us for the mess she got us into back home.”

  “Oh yeah? Spill it.”

  Larry held up his right hand, Injun-style. “Don’t get him started.”

  Johnny Z took the straw from Bree and the telephone rang. It rang again and Bryan picked it up. “Hi, baby,” he said. Then he picked up the cradle and moved away from his friends.

  “Awww,” Bree said. “Ain’t that sweet?”

  “The little lady, huh?”

  Larry called out, “Tell her we said hi!”

  “C’mon,” Zweitic again. “Spill it. The hell’d you get yourselves into back home?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Pretty wild, wasn’t it, Bree?”

  “Got that right.”

  “Now I have to know.”

  “Well,” Bree said. “Maybe if you’re Johnny Z Good, I’ll tell ya later. But if you’re Johhny Z Bad, I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

  “Hey!” Bryan called out. “Keep it down.” He took the phone from his ear and looked down at his friends, and then resumed his conversation with Carrie:

  “Go ahead, baby.

  “No shit.

  “That’s unbelievable.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m glad you called. I was just about to call you when the phone rang.”

  “Sure you were,” said Bree.

  “All right, now. Talk to you later.” Bryan placed the headset in its cradle and returned the phone to the table, a look of stunned disbelief etched upon his face as Johnny Z said, “What?”

  “Yeah, Dude, what’s up? They find out who our little friend was?”

  “What little friend?” Bree asked him.

  “Never mind,” Bryan said, then, “You’re not gonna believe this shit. They found a body in the airport back in Charlotte.”

  “A body?” Bree said.

  “Yeah, a dead body in the men’s restroom just down from the bookstore we were in. About forty-five minutes after our plane took off.”

  “No!” gushed from Larry’s mouth.

  “Some fucking businessman. Dude, he was naked. Somebody strangled him and—”

  “Fucked the shit outa him and strangled him,” Larry said.

  “What!” Johnny Z cried out.

  “They found his clothes stuffed in the garbage.”

  “Oh, my God.” Bree looked at Larry, who shrugged his shoulders.

  “The fuck’re you talking about?” Zweitic said.

  “We were waiting in the concourse back in Charlotte. I wanted to see if any of my books were in the bookstore.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yeah, A Cut Above.”

  “Good goin’, man.”

  “Yeah, well, we walked past this weird-looking, queer-looking guy hanging out by the men’s room.”

  “Queer as in strange or queer as in faggot?”

  “Both.”

  “You should’ve seen this guy,” Bree said. “His hair was dyed a bullshit off color of red, so faded it almost looked pink.”

  “I thought it was orange,” Larry said.

  “It was orange,” Bryan said. “And his skin was pale as a fish’s belly. And he had these huge friggin’ muscles.”

  “He winked at Bryan when we walked passed him!” Bree said, like a little girl tattling on her big brother.

  “I went in the bathroom.”

  “After he winked at you?”

  “No, motherfucker, after we got out of the bookstore!”

  Zweitic chuckled. “Thank God for that,” he said.

  “He wasn’t anywhere around when I went inside, but while I was taking a leak I heard somebody moaning and, you know… flesh slapping together.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, they kept going at it, and I said, ‘Hey, get a fucking room, why don’t ya!’ And that weird-looking fucker stepped outa the stall swinging the biggest cock this side of Sea Biscuit.”

  “No way.”

  “I thought he was gonna conk me over the head with the son of a bitch.”

  Larry grinned, and Zweitic and Bree burst out laughing.

  “I got the hell out of there. I mean, fuck it. They’re both consenting adults, let ‘em hump the shit outa each other for all I care.”

  Johnny Z leaned back, fidgeting, fingertips tapping nervously on his thighs. “Let me get this straight. You’re tel
ling me some weird muscle-bound gay guy raped some poor old businessman who probably just wandered into the bathroom to take a shit or something. Strangled him and left him naked in the stall.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Wanna draw straws now or later?”

  “What?”

  “To see who gets to use this in a book.”

  “Jesus, Zweitic,” Bryan said, nodding at Larry. “You’re crazier’n he is.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It had been a long hard day for Rick Greaton, one that had started out full of hope and promise. A pleasant ride to the airport with his wife by his side had done little to alleviate the frustration of waiting two hours for his flight to become airborne, nor had it made up for the shitty airplane food and that stupid Disney movie he had shelled out five bucks for. All topped off by a crazy dream brought on by the stress and strain of worrying about situations he had little or no control over, and that moron who kept turning and staring at Rick all the way to Orlando. Of course, when the plane touched down, it was Rick who felt like a moron when the guy caught him on the concourse, rattling off damn near every book Rick had ever published while asking him for an autograph. Here the guy was, pumped up about seeing his favorite author, and his favorite author was sitting back in his seat wishing the asshole would drop dead.

  And now Rick was sitting in a packed hotel bar wishing he could drop dead. Next to him was an overweight, out of date Vampirella, who had packed her huge, sagging breasts into a gown that didn’t even come close to fitting her. Thin streaks of gray hair leaked through a black dye-job badly in need of repair as she sat there laughing her ass off at some asinine haiku that had just spewed from Graham Greystone’s drunken mouth. Miss Kitty graced the nametag pinned to her black floor-length dress, but Miss Kitty was really Kate Spivey, a middle-aged divorcee who had taken her ex for a fortune when he dumped her for a twenty-two-year-old receptionist. Rick knew this because she had been telling anyone who would listen for the last seven years. She was Rick Greaton’s biggest fan, and Rick was praying to God to make her get up and leave him the hell alone. At least shut her the hell up about her frigging ex.

  What a waste it was all turning out to be. Finding out the guy in the airport was a fan had been a real ego boost, and had really gotten his evening off to a good start. How quickly those good feelings had degenerated into the same old grind as Rick found himself wandering the dealer’s room, pressing the flesh with old friends and fans while the mass market boys practically ignored him—Cliff Trujillo had up and walked off while Rick was talking to him, and Harrow House was the bottom of the pile, and if the hind tit of the publishing world had no interest in him…

  A little mixing and mingling, renewing old contacts and making new ones—that was why he had come here. And now the people who mattered the most were avoiding him like he was a rotting carcass. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. How could so many fans clamor for his work, and Rick still not have a major publishing house wanting to sign him? On and on it goes, and where does it stop? In a crummy little hotel bar in Mickey Mouse Land with an over the hill hack swilling booze with a clinging over the hill ex-housewife.

  Kate said, “I told that son of a bitch, I’d give him custody of his boys—all three of ‘em. For five hundred thousand dollars apiece. I’ve been smiling ever since.”

  And Rick thought there wasn’t enough booze on God’s green earth for him to suffer through another minute of this dried up old hag’s company. And then the big man smiled down upon him as Kate spotted Reggie Bannister holding court a few tables away and staggered off to join up with the star of the old Phantasm movies.

  Three guys walked up, tall and thin, with pale pancake makeup and glitter covering their skin, black polish on their fingernails and black gloss covering their lips. All three, with their slick, clean-shaven heads, were decked out in skintight black leather, like the Cenobites from Clive Barker’s Hellraiser series. The tallest of them laid an old dog-eared copy of Dead Of Night on the table, the vampire tale that had started the whole ball of wax rolling all those years ago, the one that had put Rick Greaton square in the middle of the literary roadmap. He knelt down, looped an arm around Rick’s shoulder and spoke, Rick smiling at his thick English accent: “Hiya, Mister Gryton. Could ya sign me ‘ol copy’a Dead-O-Night? I been carryin’ this baby around for a lotta years ‘opin to run inta you.”

  Rick pulled out a pen. “I’d be delighted,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Ace, just make it out to Ace.” The guy stood up, still leaning forward, his hand still resting on Rick’s shoulder. “What’re you drinkin’? I just gotta buy ya a drink.”

  Rick looked up, smiled and said, “Gin and tonic.” He signed the book and handed it back to the man, who waved the book around like it was the Holy Grail while the three of them moved on.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Graham said.

  “Yep, pretty good.”

  “I was glad to see you show up for this one.”

  “I said I was going to, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “Good old Greaton, still carrying that boulder-sized chip on your shoulder.”

  “If I said I was going to come, why wouldn’t I?”

  Graham narrowed his eyes. “Let’s see now. You once told me you were going to sell more books than Stephen King. As I remember, your exact comment was ‘I’m going to run Stevie-boy out of the market place. How long ago was that? Fifteen, twenty years? You must be living in a palace by now.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. At least I don’t write the same old book over and over and over again.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You know what I mean. You’ve been writing the same silly ghost story for years.”

  “I give my fans what they want. What’s wrong with that?”

  Greaton raised a glass to his lips and gulped down its contents, turning just as a gum-popping waitress arrived at their table. She wore tight black shorts over black leotards, and a tucked-in white shirt that hugged her ample bosom.

  She placed a drink on the table, and Rick thanked her.

  “How about you, sweetie?”

  Graham regarded his glass, which was still half full. “I’m good,” he said.

  The waitress walked away, and Graham turned to Greaton, smiling. “Where were we? Oh yeah, you were telling me how I was a one-trick hack who had gotten fat writing the same old story over and over. Very nice, Rick. And a very good illustration of why you’re sitting around broke in whatever hovel you dwell in out there in California.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. You’d do a lot better if you could get back in the bookstores, though, wouldn’t you? Been a while since anything of yours has graced the shelves of a Barnes and Noble or Borders. Huh?”

  Graham nodded at Troy and Ellie—the one-eyed pirate and his mate—as they walked by, heading toward the bar.

  “You know what your problem is?”

  Rick said nothing as he picked up his glass and took a drink.

  “You’re an asshole. Sure, you’ve got people sucking up to you on the Internet—hell, we all do. But nobody wants to do business with you. They don’t have to put up with your temperamental bullshit. Look around, Rick. Tables full of smiling people: authors and fans and publishing execs, all laughing and having a good time. And here you are with good ‘ol Miss Kitty—and you couldn’t even hold her interest. The only reason I’m here is because I felt sorry for your ass. Thought maybe somebody important might come over and I’d drag you into the conversation.”

  Graham looked around the room, then back at Greaton. “I do pretty well for a guy who writes the same old story over and over. Hell, I cleared over a hundred grand last year—way over. Cliff Trujillo just asked me to submit something to Harrow. But I won’t. Know why? They don’t pay enough.”

  Greaton winced and took another drink, and then stared at his glass.

&n
bsp; “You’re a fantastic writer. There’s no getting around it—hell, I’ve read every last one of your books and enjoyed them all. But you really are a colossal ass.”

  “Hey hey hey! Rick Greaton!”

  Graham looked up to see Bryan Kenney standing at his side.

  “I was hoping you’d show up,” Bryan said, as he and his two companions took a seat—Bryan beside Greaton, Bree and Larry across from the three of them.

  “Rick,” Graham said. “This is Bryan Kenney and Larry Higdon, and their lovely friend, Bree Brannan. Bryan’s doing great things over at Harrow!”

  Bryan and Graham laughed at Graham’s Cliff Trujillo impression, which drew a smile from Rick Greaton. “Right,” he said. “I’ve read some of your stuff. Very good, Bryan.”

  “Man, this is such an honor,” Bryan said, beaming, eyes sparkling as his fingers drummed nervously against the tabletop.

  “Pleasure’s all mine, sport,” Greaton said as he picked up his glass, cutting a sideways glance at Graham before putting it to his lips. There was a jealous look in his eye, one of a man who suspected that a kid just starting out in the business was already further than he might ever be again.

  The waitress came by, all teeth and smiles and bills overflowing her tip-jar. “How about it, fellas?” she said, balancing a tray full of empty glasses against her narrow hips.

  “How about it, Rick?” Bryan said.

  Greaton chuckled. Smiling at Bryan, he said, “Let me finish this one, first.”

  “Got any Rolling Rock?” Larry asked, frowning when the woman said no.

  “Heineken and Coors,” she said in an appeasing tone of voice. “Bud, Miller Lite.”

  “Heineken for me and the missus,” Larry said. “A bottle of horse piss for my fair-haired friend over there.”

  “Miller Lite for the cutie,” she said, tousling a hand through Bryan’s hair, as Larry’s eyes grew wide. “Graham?” he said.

  “Nah, I’ve had enough for one night.”

  The waitress turned, smiling as she walked away.

  “Married?” Graham said.

  Bree snorted. “Yeah, right.”