The security guard was another of life's underachievers: he gave me a warning and kicked me off the lot. I wrote another letter to the actress, explaining what had happened because I don't think she saw me, and I'm sure she didn't know how badly I'd been treated. I asked her if I could meet her, maybe even take her to lunch.
I got a visitor a week or so later. At two o'clock in the morning. The doorbell rang and I was half asleep when I answered it. I was wearing my bathrobe and nothing else and my eyes were thick with sleep, which is how the guy managed to take me by surprise, I guess. He asked me if I was Marvin Waller and I said I was and then he hit me in the stomach, hard. He pushed me back into the apartment and kicked the door shut, then made me sit on the coffee table. He was Italian and looked as if he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. His suit was made of some expensive, shiny material, and he had spats. Yeah, I remember the spats because I had my head down for the first minute or two while I massaged my stomach and got my breath back. Black shoes with white, spotless spats.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the spats. I mean, who wears spats these days?
He grabbed my hair and forced me to look up, and he threw some letters at me. The letters I'd written to the actress. I looked at the letters and when I looked up again he had a gun in his hand. A big one. An automatic. He shoved it under my nose and said that I was never again to write to her, that I wasn't to go within five miles of her, the studio, or her house. That if I did, he'd come and see me again and that he wouldn't be as gentle. He asked me if I understood, like I was some sort of retard. I told him I did. He asked me if I agreed to stay away from her and I said yes. I wasn't afraid, I really wasn't, because I could see he still had the safety on. He didn't scare me, I just told him what he wanted to hear so that he'd get the hell out of my apartment. He went, with his shiny suit and sparkling spats and Mafia accent. I didn't write to the actress again, I couldn't see the point, but it was the last time I ever put my address on a letter to a star.
The memory makes my hands shake and I pace around the room, faster and faster. I decide it'd be better not to send the synopsis to the actress I'd seen at the movie theatre. Especially now that Marcinko and Turner are on my case. I've too much to lose.
The doorbell rings and even before I open the door I know it's them.
‘Marvin, can we come in?’ asks Marcinko. I look at her and smile. ‘Please,’ she adds. I take off the chain and open the door for her. I get a whiff of something sweet and fragrant, like a fresh meadow. Turner follows her into the room, bringing with him the smell of sweat and stale cigarette smoke.
‘Now what?’ I say, directing the question at Marcinko because I prefer to deal with her. Turner is giving off bad vibes, like he wants to smash me against the wall and drive his knee into my groin. I don't like Turner, and it's clear he doesn't think I'm flavour of the month.
‘Marvin, we'd like you to come down to the station with us.’
‘Why, are you scared to be out on your own?’
She laughs despite herself and her hand goes up to cover her mouth. Her teeth are surprisingly white, surprising because cops tend to drink a lot of coffee and smoke too many cigarettes. Yellow teeth go with the job, but Marcinko's belong in a toothpaste advertisement. I wonder what she'd be like to kiss. ‘No Marvin, I'm not scared to be out on my own. But we'd like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Can't we do that here?’
‘Why, are you scared of going out?’ asks Turner. He's staring at the bed.
‘Probable cause?’ I say.
Marcinko shakes her head. ‘We'd just like to talk to you.’
‘About doormen?’
‘No. Not about doormen.’
‘About what then?’
‘Forget this shit,’ Turner says to Marcinko. ‘Let's just take him in.’
‘I'll only come with you if you arrest me, and you don't have probable cause to make an arrest. If you make an illegal arrest then it won't matter if you Miranda me or let me call a lawyer, any case you eventually make will fail. Fruit of the poisoned tree.’
‘I'll give you fruit of the poisoned tree,’ he snarls, thrusting his face close up to mine. I breathe out and his spectacles fog up. I have to clamp my teeth together to stop myself grinning as he backs away and wipes the lenses with a bright red handkerchief.
‘Unfortunately for you, Sergeant Turner, I know my rights.’
‘We know you know your rights, Marvin,’ says Marcinko. ‘You're a very intelligent individual.’
I look into Officer Marcinko's deep blue eyes. She's using a dark blue mascara to bring out the colour. She has the most amazing eyes. ‘Don't bother trying to flatter me,’ I say.
Her eyes widen like it was the last thing on her mind. ‘I just think we'd be more comfortable down at the station. I mean, it's not as if you have much in the way of chairs.’
She's right, of course, there is only the one chair. I think of asking her to sit on the bed with me, but decide against it. ‘That suggests it's going to take some time,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘We've a few questions for you.’
‘And you can't ask them here?’
‘We'd prefer to do it downtown.’
‘On your turf?’
‘Sort of. Will you?’ She smiles, showing her perfect teeth. ‘Please.’
She's definitely used to getting her own way. And she's clearly told Turner to take a back seat so that she can work her magic on me. ‘I'll do you a deal?’ I say.
She seems amused. ‘A deal?’
‘Yeah. Let me see your credential and badge.’
‘That's all?’
I hold out my hand. ‘Sure.’
She takes out a black leather wallet and flips it open. I take it off her and hold out my other hand to Turner. He looks at her and she nods. He gives me his wallet, but he's not happy about it. I sit down and copy down the details on a sheet of paper.
‘What are you doing?’ Turner asks, frowning.
‘For my records,’ I say.
‘Your records? What fucking records?’
I smile benignly. ‘Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Sergeant Turner.’ I hand his wallet back to him, and toss the other one to Marcinko. She catches it one-handed. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let's go.’
There's a dirty brown sedan parked outside and I get to sit in the back. I don't have to go with them but I'm having fun with Marcinko. She's cute, for a cop. Lisa is her first name, according to the ID. We drive into the parking lot of the police station and they take me through a back entrance along green-painted corridors to an interview room. Turner waves me to a chair. ‘Do I get a phone call?’ I ask.
‘A phone call? What do you want a phone call for?’
‘It's my right, isn't it?’
He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. There's a class ring on it, blue with bits of yellow in it. ‘All we're doing is having a talk here, Waller.’
Marcinko closes the door and stands leaning against it, her arms folded across her chest.
‘Sure, but I'd like to make a phone call,’ I say. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘You know you're not under arrest, Marvin,’ says Marcinko. ‘We'd have read you your rights if you were under arrest.’
‘He knows that,’ says Turner. ‘He knows all there is to know about his rights.’
‘So I'd like to make a phone call, okay.’
‘Are you calling a lawyer, Marvin?’ asks Marcinko.
‘Why? Do I need a lawyer?’
‘You tell me,’ she says. She uncrosses her arms and moves away from the door. ‘But if you do call a lawyer, we'll think that you've got something to hide.’
We stand looking at each other for several seconds. I have an almost irresistible impulse to kiss her on the lips. I smile, wondering how she'd react, whether she'd pull her gun or kiss me back. ‘I'll just be a few minutes,’ I say. I pat my pockets. ‘I don't suppose you've got a quarter, have you? I left my cellphone in the apartment. Unless
you want to lend me your cellphone?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ mutters Turner behind me, but Marcinko takes out a small leather purse and gives me a quarter, like a mother handing out pocket money to a child. Our fingers touch as she gives me the coin and there's a spark, like static electricity.
‘Did you feel that?’ I ask.
She smiles and opens the door for me. ‘Go make your call, Marvin.’
Five minutes later and I'm back in the room. Turner stands in a corner like a cigar- store wooden Indian, face impassive, and Marcinko is sitting at the table. ‘Sit down, Marvin,’ she says. Great. It's going to be the good cop-bad cop routine and it's no surprise whose going to be playing the good cop. Lisa with the smiling eyes.
I sit down and give her the boyish grin, flicking the hair out of my eyes. She wants me, I can tell. She might not realise it yet, but Officer Lisa Marcinko has the hots for me. ‘So, what's up?’ I ask as if I haven't a care in the world.
She takes out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter and offers me one. I shake my head. ‘Mind if I do?’ she asks, trying to build a relationship between us.
‘Go ahead,’ I say. ‘Just remember that smoking kills.’
She smiles thinly and lights up, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling through slightly pursed lips. ‘So, Marvin. Tell me a little bit about yourself.’
‘You sound like you're interviewing me for a job. And I thought you weren’t allowed to smoke in public buildings.’
She shrugged. ‘We have some flexibility.’
‘Some perps need a cigarette to confess?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘But I’m not a smoker.’
‘No. But I am. You're twenty-three years old, yes?’
‘Yes.’ She could have got that from my drivers licence.
‘You went to the New York Film School for two semesters, yes?’
‘Yes.’ That didn't come off my drivers licence. They've been making enquiries. I wonder how much digging they've done.
‘Why did you drop out?’
‘I wasn't learning anything.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘You know what they say. If you can't do, teach.’
‘You're quite smart aren't you?’
‘You tell me.’
She takes another deep pull on the cigarette. ‘Yes, I think you're quite smart. Have you ever had your IQ measured?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘And?’
‘One eighty. Or thereabouts.’
Her eyes widen. ‘That's genius level.’
‘And some.’
She smiles. Maybe she hadn't realised how smart I am. ‘You're interested in film, aren't you?’
‘Sure. I'm a screenwriter.’ There's a snort from Turner and I know what he's thinking.
‘Do you have a video camera?’
Interesting question that. I think I know what she's getting at. ‘Sure. Doesn't everyone these days?’
‘Where is it?’
‘At home. I haven't used it for ages.’
‘Expensive?’
‘It’s a professional model, yes. Sometimes I shoot scenes. It helps with the writing.’
She nods and flicks ash onto the floor. There's no ashtray in the interview room. Maybe they think I'll use it as a weapon. ‘Why do you think it is that you haven't sold a script, Marvin?’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You think your screenplays are good, don't you?’
‘Sure.’
‘And plenty of less talented writers get their work accepted, right?’
‘Too right.’
‘So, what's holding you back?’
I lean forward. ‘Secretaries,’ I say. ‘Secretaries?’
‘Yeah. They're emissaries of Satan.’
‘Really?’
I lean back and grin. ‘No, of course not. But they act as barriers. That's why I wait outside buildings, to get to the top guy.’
She nods. ‘You've written several letters complaining about secretaries, haven't you?’
‘Some. I figure that the guys at the top should know what's going on, that's all. Why are you asking about secretaries?’
‘Just routine,’ she says.
‘I don't think so. I don't think it's routine at all. The serial killer you're looking for has killed three secretaries so far, hasn't he? And the woman who's missing, the latest one, she's a secretary too, isn't she?’
‘That was on the TV, was it?’ asks Marcinko. ‘Or in the Times, yeah.’
‘What do you know about the latest case?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘You're asking me?’
‘Sure. Maybe you can help us.’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you might have a different perspective. A writer's perspective.’
My neck starts to itch and I want to scratch it, but I know she'll take any nervous movement as an indication of guilt, so I block the itch out of my mind.
‘So, do you know the woman's name?’
‘Hall,’ I say. ‘Sarah Hall.’
‘She's not one of the secretaries who works for Satan, is she?’
I laugh. If she's trying to trap me, she's way too obvious. ‘I shouldn't think so. Do you mean, does she work for a producer or director? Is she one of the women who've been giving me a hard time? I don't know, Officer Marcinko. Or may I call you Lisa?’
‘You can call me Lisa if you want.’
I turn to look at Turner. ‘What about you, Ed?’
‘You can call me Sergeant Turner, Waller.’
‘Fine by me, Ed,’ I say, and flash him a grin. Fuck him. I look back at Marcinko.
‘You've seen the videos, haven't you Marvin?’ she says.
‘The ones he sends to the TV stations? Sure. Everyone has. They’re even on YouTube. Censored bits, anyway.’
‘Tell me about the videos.’
I sit back in the chair and look into her blue eyes, trying to read what's on her mind. ‘He makes them do things to themselves, and films them.’
She nods. ‘That's right. And then what does he do?’
I shrug. ‘I guess he kills them.’
‘And then what?’
‘Then he gets rid of the bodies, I suppose.’
She leans forward. ‘That's not been on the TV, has it, Marvin?’
‘What?’
‘The bodies. We've never found their bodies.’
‘Maybe he's too smart for you.’
Our eyes lock for what seems an eternity. I can feel her looking right inside me. It's a scary feeling, like she was searching through my pockets and there's nothing I can do to stop her. ‘Yes, Marvin. Maybe he is.’
‘You're sweating, Waller,’ says Turner. He walks to stand behind Marcinko. Good cop, bad cop. ‘You're sweating like maybe you're hiding something from us.’
‘It's hot in here,’ I say.
‘It's not that hot,’ says Turner. ‘Are you hot, Marcinko?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘See, Waller. It's not hot in here. You're sweating, man. Sweating like a pig. A stinking, sweating, guilty pig.’
I smile tightly because I don't feel like smiling. I feel like lashing out, like kicking and hitting until I make him bleed. ‘Guilty of what, Ed?’
He's just about to answer when the door opens and a uniformed cop sticks his head into the room. Hey, Marcinko. You got a guy called Waller in here?’
I raise a hand like I'm in school. ‘This is him,’ says Marcinko. ‘Why?’
The cop grins. ‘He's got a visitor,’ he says.
‘A fucking lawyer,’ sighs Turner. ‘I knew it.’
The cop's grin widens and he pushes the door open. There's a pizza delivery boy there carrying a cardboard box. I smile at Marcinko. ‘I wasn't sure what you liked, so I ordered a deep pan with everything on it. Everything except anchovies. I hate anchovies.’
Marcinko can't stop herself from smiling at me. She looks really pretty when she smiles. The
re's a spark in her that even the job can't stifle. ‘Me too,’ she says, and I can feel a bond forming between us.
* * *
You check through the peephole and see her lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You tap out the combination on the keypad and as you push open the door she jumps to her feet, the chain clinking on the floor as she stands up. For a second she forgets to avert her eyes but then she sees the stun gun and quickly looks at the floor. Her hands begin to tremble and she clasps them together in front of her. You keep looking at her as you close the door behind you. She doesn't look up and you smile. She is learning quickly.
You walk slowly towards her, taking your time, savouring it. The anticipation is half the pleasure. You stop when you get to within six feet of her and you know that she can see your legs but still she doesn't look up. Her blonde hair has swung forward creating a curtain around her face and it brushes against her shoulders making a soft, swishing sound.
Her skirt reaches to just above her knees and hugs her hips and thighs. She is standing with her legs slightly apart and the material is stretched between them. You look down at her legs and realise that something is wrong. She isn't wearing her shoes. You see them underneath the bed and when you look back at her legs you see that smooth and tanned as they are, she isn't wearing her stockings.
‘Where are your stockings?’ you ask sharply and she flinches.
‘The bathroom,’ she says, nervously.
You step forward and punch her in the stomach so hard that she doubles over and her head bangs into your chest. Her body is wracked by coughing sobs and you grab her shoulders and push her upright. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. You take deep breaths to calm yourself down. It's important that all commands are given without anger, calmly and rationally. With authority. ‘I told you to wash yourself, and to dress. That means everything. I didn't tell you to leave off your stockings, or your shoes. I want you to look your best. Do you understand, Sarah?’
‘Yes,’ she says, and reaches up to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Good,’ you say. ‘I want you to shower again, and then I want you to dress properly.Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ she says. She looks up at you, her big blue eyes wet and puffy, then realises that she's broken another rule and quickly lowers her eyes.
The Basement Page 5