Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  “Scott?” I said.

  The man squinted in the light, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “How can I – Mike? Mike Quinn?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “It’s got to be ten years.”

  “Fifteen,” I said, ashamed. “Good to see you, man.”

  “You too.” He spoke to the other lawyers waiting for him. “I’ll see you all after lunch, okay?”

  They continued without him. I felt guilty. “You didn’t have to do that for my sake.”

  “Bull. They’re just associates. They only hang around me to gain some wisdom on how not to be a lawyer.” He laughed. “So. Michael Quinn. You get sick of all that year-long sunshine and gorgeous blondes?” It was a joke, but there was a serious edge.

  “You could say that,” I admitted.

  We stood there for about thirty seconds.

  It was an awkward time.

  “So,” he said, breaking the ice. “I saw that film you were in with Bruce Willis.”

  “You spotted me, huh?”

  “I saw you, but wasn’t sure. So I checked the credits – and there you were.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “In a real fight you’d have won. Bruce Willis cheated with that Uzi in his boot.” He laughed. “God, I can’t get over this. It’s like going back in time. So … I’m starving. You joining me for a big lunch?”

  “Sure. Long as you’re paying.”

  Scott picked a quiet restaurant facing the ocean. Dozens of sailing boats passed the large tinted window with silent grace. I felt as though I could reach out and touch them. Scott suggested I try the crab. He said it was delicious. Five minutes later I found out he wasn’t lying.

  I didn’t feel like talking about my life in LA, so I was grateful that Scott had news of his own.

  He told me he was married to Fiona Brookes – nothing less than the Homecoming Queen of our final year in high school. That was a surprise, for she’d only dated jocks when I knew her. Fiona was now a writer of romantic novels; she had three published by Hallin-Bowdrey and was working on her fourth. Scott and Fiona had two daughters, aged six and three. Scott proudly showed photographs from his wallet of the cutest girls outside of a Disney movie. They were both blonde, with fair skin and blue eyes. They looked just like their mother. I remembered Fiona as being one of the popular girls - someone who wouldn’t associate with Scott or me when we were younger, but times changed and so did people. Fiona must have realised that Scott was the best guy in Cape Mistral. She loved kids. Scott said they were trying for another. “I want a boy this time. Someone I can show how to play baseball and football.”

  “You never could play, though.”

  “Only because I fell off that horse and broke my knee. I know the moves. My son will be excellent at sports.”

  “Yeah, right. But what if you get another daughter?”

  “Then I’ll just have to keep on trying.”

  “You lucky punk. You and Fiona, that’s astounding.”

  He grinned. “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Fiona didn’t look at you in high school.”

  “I was a spotty nerd with thick black glasses. Nobody looked at me. Now I’m a successful nerd with designer glasses. It also helps I’m a lawyer. Gee, I guess I’m irresistible to women.” He gave an ironic smile.

  “Speaking of women,” I said, “is Abby still living here?”

  “Abby? Yeah.” Scott adjusted his glasses – a sure sign he was holding back something.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “She’s married.”

  “Ah,” I said. I tried to hide my disappointment and shock, but I guessed my expression just looked painful. I could not bring myself to ask any more questions. Somehow, I’d always dreamt that Abby would be waiting for me to return like a character in a Gothic romance. But real life was never simple.

  “Still acting?” Scott asked, mercifully changing the subject.

  “No. I’m what you call in the biz ‘resting.’ Normal folk call it unemployed. Actors rest. I do a lot of resting. I could do it as an Olympic sport, win a few gold medals for doing nothing. I have a rigorous training schedule that I ignore.”

  “No offence, Mike, but you look really tired.”

  “I am. Tired of the biz, that is.” The crab suddenly tasted bland. “Scott, I need to say something.”

  “About Abby?”

  “No, about me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I had wanted to say that for years.

  He said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, “for acting like a major jerk. I should have stayed in contact with you and the other guys. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t. I just think I was trying to hide from my past, you know? Deny everything, then maybe I’d be happy. But it didn’t work. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

  I pressed my fingers into my temples. I could feel my pulse throbbing.

  Scott moved his chair closer and spoke softly. “We all understand, Mike. We all knew Billy. We all knew how you felt when he died. You just had to get stuff out of your system. That’s all. I always knew you didn’t hate us. You hated yourself.”

  “You should have been a shrink,” I said. “Saved me some money.”

  “Don’t kid with me, Mike. Talk to me.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered, “the only thing I did in LA was put stuff into my system. Drink. Coke. Speed. You name it, I tried it.”

  “Have you stopped now?”

  “I’ve been to rehab three times in the last five years. Last time was a month ago. I’ve been wandering around the country since then. I know I’d just go back to the old routine if I didn’t get away from Hollywood. I’d probably move on to heroin next time. I thought … I hoped this would be a refuge. Rhode Island is about as far away from Los Angeles as you can get. But I don’t know. Maybe too much time’s passed. Maybe I don’t belong here either.”

  “You do,” he said.

  I remained unconvinced.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll call the guys. This weekend we’ll go on a fishing trip like the old days. We’ll drink beers and … you’ll drink Pepsis. It’ll be great.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Come on, say yes.”

  “Okay. Yes. Thanks. Be like old times?”

  “Better than old times. Guaranteed: that’s the word of a lawyer.”

  I truly hoped so. I finished my crab while Scott talked about what he’d done in law school. Then he asked me what I planned on doing, now I was back in Cape Mistral.

  I shrugged. “No idea. It’s not as if I’m qualified as a brain surgeon.”

  “You could go into business with your dad.”

  “True, but I’d feel like a leech.”

  “So what are you planning to do?”

  “In the immediate future I was thinking about seeing Wayne. How is he?”

  “Wayne’s Wayne,” he said, cryptically.

  “Is there something I don’t know?”

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I’d better tell you Wayne went to the Gulf to fight Saddam Hussein. He had to shoot two Iraqi soldiers to save some Kuwait civilians. Anyway, the soldiers he killed turned out to be no more than eighteen-year-old conscripts. Wayne had no choice, but … He carries the guilt around like a ball and chain. Don’t even think about mentioning the Gulf War if you see him.”

  “He loses his temper?”

  “And then some. He came back meaner than ever. A few of his buddies got sick with the Gulf War Syndrome, which he blames the world for. He might not give you the welcome you want. Maybe I should talk to him first? You know, smooth the way?”

  I appreciated the offer, but I felt I had to see Wayne personally. “Maybe - if I can’t get him to talk to me, okay?�
��

  “Okay.”

  “Where does he live? The trailer park?”

  “No, he moved out years ago. He has a boat now. It’s called The Scud Hunter. Can you believe that name? The Scud Hunter?”

  I coughed with my mouth full. It was supposed to be a no.

  “Wayne lives aboard it. It’s quite nice, actually, if he could be persuaded to paint it once in a while. He paid for it with the money he earned in the Army.”

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “In the summer he does tours. He uses it for commercial fishing in the winter. A day like today, he’s probably taking some tourists out to see the islands …” Suddenly, Scott said: “Uh-oh … I think the Michael Quinn fan club is outside.”

  “What?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  I looked behind me. On the street side of the restaurant, the old women I’d seen earlier were gathered on the sidewalk, looking in and pointing. “It’s like a scene in Night Of the Living Dead. What do you suppose they want – autographs or to eat my brain?”

  “Go on – find out.”

  I got up and walked to the entrance. A plump lady detached from the group. She was dressed in a baggy blue dress. She looked like a huge prune. “Excuse me,” she said, “but you are Dr Samson?”

  Dr Samson was an evil character I played for one season in General Hospital. He was a womaniser with a shady past. Dr Samson finally gained a conscience in his very last episode, when he sacrificed his life to save a young boy from being stabbed by a madman. “Yes, I was Dr Samson. My real name is Michael Quinn.”

  “See?” she said to the others. “I told you. It is Dr Samson.”

  “Glad to help, ladies.”

  She smiled. “I’m Margaret Highsmith. I’m a member of the school board. It would be wonderful if you could appear at the school fund-raiser. We are having a fair that will hopefully pay for new library books and gym equipment.”

  “I …” She was desperate for me to say yes. I wondered how’d she react if she knew the truth about me: that I was a high-school drop-out and ex-junkie. Would she run away screaming? “I’d love to, Margaret.”

  “You’re a hero,” she said. “The kids will love it. It’s this Saturday.”

  “This Saturday?”

  “It’s no problem, is it?”

  I thought about the fishing trip. But the old woman had me surrounded. I was trapped. “Yes, okay.”

  Margaret Highsmith looked like she’d explode with pleasure. “Fantastic! It would be really great if you could do a speech about acting, too.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  The women thanked me again, then went away giggling like schoolgirls.

  Scott was paying the bill, laughing. Watching him sign the cheque made me feel guilty.

  “We should split it,” I said.

  “Nonsense. You sign the autographs, I sign the cheques.”

  I wondered if he suspected I had a lot less money than most people thought. I had roughly forty grand in the bank, with $300,000 due from the sale of my Beverly Hills condo, once I found a buyer. I’d originally paid $750,000 for it, but earthquake damage had cracked the bottom of the swimming pool, causing all the water to leak into the foundations. A full assessment of the problem had yet to be completed. Anyone buying the condo would need to factor in the cost of repairs. That meant most of my money was tied up for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, the forty grand would give me some breathing space while I looked for a new job. I was lucky to have that – I’d had to sell my Porsche for some ready cash, leaving me with just my old and trustworthy MG.

  “Thanks, man. I owe you next time.”

  He was grinning when we walked outside. “We’ll do the fishing trip next week then? Your fan club have abducted you for this one, I saw.”

  I felt like laughing too. “Yeah, looks like I was press-ganged into doing a speech or something.”

  “I tell you what – why don’t you come to dinner tonight?”

  “Tonight? Fiona won’t mind?”

  “Why should she? I’ll be cooking.”

  “You cook? That’ll be something to see.”

  Mock offended: “Hey, I happen to do a mean beef stroganoff. I’ve gone beyond burning beans in a campfire. I actually did a course in Italian cuisine.”

  “I am impressed.”

  “You should be. I only failed twice. So, tonight is on. Eight o’clock sound okay?”

  “Great.”

  “See you later, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  Scott headed towards his office at a pace that made me realise he’d spent more time talking to me than was prudent. I hoped he didn’t lose a client for my sake.

  I went down to the marina to admire the boats, breathe in the salty air, and look for The Scud Hunter. There was a sign for it, but it wasn’t there. The times it sailed were chalked on a board. The Scud Hunter was on a tour for another two hours, so I decided to chill out and wait and just enjoy the afternoon.

  On the short stretch of beach from the boardwalk to the rocks, girls in tight swimsuits and bikinis lounged on the pure yellow sand. I was mesmerised. It was like the opening credits of Baywatch.

  Sighing, I went to an ice cream stand and bought a chilled 7-Up and a strawberry ice cream cone. From there, I noticed five guys were annoying some of the girls. They were all big guys, all wearing the same T-shirts and baseball caps. There was a logo on the T-shirts - it looked like a blue planet from this distance.

  “Who are they?” I asked the ice cream seller.

  “Heaven and Earth Enterprises.” He saw my confusion. “They’re building some kind of hotel resort on Emerald Point. You’ll see them all over town. Think they’re God’s gift.”

  “Emerald Point is beautiful. They can’t dump a hotel on it.”

  “They are.”

  “It’s obscene.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I could see the men annoying one particular redheaded girl. One guy wanted to rub suntan lotion on her back, but she didn’t want him to. He wouldn’t leave her alone.

  Something clicked inside. I downed the 7-Up and finished the ice cream on my way across the beach. I jogged. I could hear the men making suggestive and offensive remarks. I slowed down just out of range of the men.

  “Hey, you guys. She doesn’t want your kind of help.”

  They looked at me with utter contempt.

  What was I doing?

  Any one of them could have fitted me into a fist. I knew some karate moves (from doing action movie bad guys in cheesy martial arts flicks) but I didn’t think it would help in the real world. In a fight size does matter. And so did numbers. But I continued: “I want you to stop annoying her.”

  “Get lost, buddy.”

  I stepped forward, tensing. A part of my mind thought I was crazy. But another part of me – the reckless actor-part – took control. I stared at their leader. I became the bad guy I’d played so many times. “I mean it.”

  I packed the words with a death threat. Non-verbally, I was saying, “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. I’m a total psycho. Mess with me and I’ll rip your heart out, stamp on it, then eat it BECAUSE I’M CRAZY.”

  That was what I was saying.

  I hoped.

  And somehow the message got through their thick craniums to their Neanderthal brains.

  “Let’s get some beers. Forget this crap.”

  I didn’t move until they’d gone.

  The girl looked stunned. “Wow. That was some acting.”

  “You recognised me?”

  “Yeah, I saw Bruce Willis kill you in what-you-call-it? Guess those morons didn’t see it.”

  “They often trouble you?”

  “This is the first time for me, but some of my friends have been. Macho jerks. Thanks for the help. Can I have your autograph?”

  I was feeling good as I walked back to the marina, thinking that I’d frightened off five thugs. Then I spotted the sheriff’s car park
ed overlooking the beach. So much for my acting skills – they must have seen him and that was why they’d retreated. I could see him watching the beach. He was a big guy. His mirrored sunglasses flashed with sunlight as he looked my way. He grinned and shook his head.

  The Scud Hunter was moored when I went looking for Wayne Leary - but I could not see anyone on board. The boat looked twenty years old, really a rusted bucket of bolts kept afloat by liberal quantities of paint and sweat. It had the authentic appearance of a real man’s boat: something tough and purposeful, not like the gleaming-white rich people’s yachts that looked as if they never touched the water.

  I had missed Wayne probably by a few minutes. Since I had no idea where he had gone, I decided to see him tomorrow.

  I drove back to The Boat House. The relief bartender Ed had taken over from my father, but he was still there. Ed was dealing with the customers, assisted by a young red-haired waitress. When Ed had a free minute, he would joke with the waitress and my father, talking about local things that made me feel left out. My father’s ease with Ed was in sharp contrast to the relationship I had with him. I could not help but feel like a stranger. My dad was sitting at a table with some buddies watching the television, but he looked bored so I asked him if he wanted a game of pool. Surprisingly, he said yes. It was a surprise because we’d rarely played together in the past; he had always been too busy with the business. But now it was a success he could hire people to split the shifts. My dad beat me easily – I was seriously out of practice - but I didn’t mind defeat. It felt good to be around him sharing some time together. He didn’t say anything, but I got the impression he felt the same. We played until six when the bar started to fill with customers wanting to play pool.