by J. S. Carol
‘No, sir.’
‘And that’s the correct answer.’
The kid looked away and got real busy, real fast. Seth took a moment to smoke and to bask. For now, the story was taking care of itself, the parts turning like well-oiled cogs in a giant machine. They were right up there on the crest of the wave, the good times were rolling, and the view was just fantastic.
‘Sir, I’ve got Carrie Preston’s agent on the line.’
This came from the Asian kid. The eager-beaver was clearly anxious to make amends for his earlier sin. Two minutes had passed since a dishevelled Carrie Preston had stumbled from Alfie’s. Two minutes and her agent was already calling.
Because they had deeper pockets, CNN and Fox would have been first in line for a call. Being third in line didn’t bother Seth. He knew how the game was played. He also knew this was a courtesy call, and the only reason he was getting it was because TRN was leading the story. And he knew one more thing. Judging by how tight the timescale was, the one person the agent hadn’t contacted was Carrie. Not even a quick call to check she was okay. It didn’t matter how long he worked in LA, this town never ceased to amaze him.
Seth took a last lingering drag on his cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke up towards the ceiling, then positioned the headset mike and barked a terse, ‘Seth Allen,’ into it. The agent didn’t bother with introductions, or small talk. She got right down to business. Seth understood exactly where she was coming from. Time was money. Carrie Preston might be hovering at the lower end of the A-list, but right now she was the hottest actress in town. The reason was simple. She was the highest-profile celebrity to come out of Alfie’s so far.
The crucial words there were so and far, because there was no telling how long that would last. At any second the bomber could release someone higher up the food chain. Ed Richards, for example. If he released Richards, then Carrie Preston became yesterday’s news. That’s why the agent was talking at a hundred miles an hour, and that’s why her client hadn’t received so much as a courtesy call to see how she was doing.
The agent reeled off a figure for an exclusive interview. The sum was obscene. It was an amount that the higher-ups at TRN would never authorise. Seth agreed to it without haggling, and the agent hung up without a thank you or a goodbye.
Worst-case scenario, he won the auction and ended up being fired. But that wasn’t going to happen because Fox and CNN wouldn’t let it happen. TRN had bloodied their noses enough for one day. They’d be looking for a way to claw back some of that lost ground at any cost. An exclusive interview with Carrie Preston would go some way to putting one of them back in the game.
9
Alex King sat paralysed behind the low wall on the lower level, and stared blankly at the painting on the wall opposite. There was a rainbow of colours splashed onto the white canvas, but all he saw was red. He’d always thought of red as being the colour of blood. He knew differently now. Blood wasn’t red. It was shiny and black and it glowed with a dark crimson tint when the light caught it a certain way.
He had been hiding behind this wall when the gun had gone off. He’d seen Lovett bring the gun up to the side of her head. He’d seen her finger tightening on the trigger. He’d prayed for another click, but that hadn’t happened. There had been a moment of stillness, a moment where he’d truly believed that Lovett would be okay, and then the big handgun had boomed. An echo of the gunshot still rumbled around inside his head. His ears still sang. The smell just made it worse. The sharp tang of gun smoke was mixed with the dead stench of slaughtered animals. It was a smell that made him want to puke. This was something else that was missing from the movies. The smell.
Above King’s head, the leaves stirred gently on the currents made by the air conditioning. Hidden in all that green was the camera he’d planted, and beyond the green was a huddle of terrified people. He hoped the FBI was getting all this. Anything that might shake them into action. If Carter and his buddies hadn’t come up with a plan to get them out, then they’d better come up with one soon. How many more people had to die before they did something?
He knew he should get back to the restroom, but he couldn’t move. It had been like this ever since Lovett had died. His limbs were frozen solid, his ass was glued to the cold, hard floor, and his head was filled with a swarm of butterfly thoughts, ideas that flitted here, there and everywhere and wouldn’t settle. He forced himself to get moving. He had to use the wall for support because he didn’t trust his legs. He reached the restroom, checked behind one last time, then inched the door open and slipped through the crack. The smell of oranges hit him straight away, but it still couldn’t erase the stench of gun smoke and death. That smell seemed to be permanently stuck in his nose.
He closed the door, easing it back into place with his left hand while his other hand worked the handle, slowly and carefully, in case it squeaked or creaked or made any sort of noise that might give him away. For a second, he just stood there with his heart thundering and his forehead touching the cool wood. The door dulled the sound from the restaurant, turning it into a background hum. And that was good.
As he stood there, he pictured himself lying by the pool on Saint Kitts, and the kaleidoscopic splash of fireworks lighting up the midnight sky. He could smell the sea on the wind. He could feel its pleasant chill on his naked arms. Slowly, he detached himself from the reality of his situation. This was something he’d taught himself to do as a kid. He’d needed to. When things were at their worst, the only way to survive was to imagine himself into a better world, one where his mom was a normal, loving mom. One where he didn’t have to worry about how he was going to hide the bruises.
When he opened his eyes again he was feeling a little better. The memory of Lovett’s death was already fading, squashed down into that place where all the bad stuff was kept safely locked away. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. Inhaled then exhaled. Long, calming yoga breaths. Then he moved over to the urinal and crouched down until he was level with the hole. Sunlight and the hot breeze of LA in August brushed his face. He was so close to freedom, close enough to feel it, yet he might as well have been stranded on the dark side of the moon.
10
The hostages were sitting in a tight group, two deep and shoulder to shoulder. Ten in total, if JJ counted herself. They were huddled together, as though sitting in close proximity could somehow protect them. The problem was that it was all an illusion.
She recognised six of the remaining hostages. Tony, Ed Richards, Simone, Kevin Donahue, Dan Stone and DeAndre Alexander. There were three others she’d never seen before, two women and a man. Bev, Jen and Frank. Chances were they worked behind the scenes. Executives or producers, probably. If they’d been actors, she would have recognised them. And if they’d been screenwriters or composers or any of the other hundreds of people that were needed to make a film, they wouldn’t be here, because they weren’t rich enough or important enough.
Then there was Alex King.
JJ was convinced that he was still in the restaurant. While the bomber had been engrossed in his game of Russian roulette, a movement from the lower level had caught her eye. She’d glanced over and seen some of the plants moving. It might have been a rogue air current pushing through the leaves, but she was certain it was King. There was no hard evidence to back this up, just a feeling that they were being watched.
As recently as this morning she would have laughed at anyone who made decisions based on anything as flaky as a feeling. She would have grouped them with those people who freaked out if they broke a mirror. As far as JJ was concerned, superstition was for people who had too much time on their hands. Those things had no place in her world. Bad stuff happened, good stuff happened. It didn’t matter how many rabbit feet you possessed, or how many ladders you avoided walking under, or even how many red cars passed you on the street, that was just the way it was.
Her world was a world of cold, hard facts. You got those facts together, you made a plan, and then you executed that plan. As far
as she was concerned, gut instinct was right up there with palm reading, tarot cards and horoscopes. But the person sitting here this afternoon was very different from the person who’d walked into Alfie’s less than two hours ago. Current events had given her a new perspective, one where she was happy to concede that there was a time and place for trusting your instincts.
‘Anyone hungry?’
The question came out of left field, pulling JJ from her thoughts. She might even have let out a small gasp, although she didn’t think so. At least, she hoped she hadn’t. A scratch on the parquet floor a yard in front of her was suddenly the most interesting thing she’d ever seen.
If the bomber was talking about food, that meant a trip down to the lower level of the restaurant where the kitchen was situated. Assuming Alex King was still here, then any trip to the kitchen would increase his chance of being found. JJ was suddenly hit by a wave of guilt that threatened to engulf her. If King died, it would be her fault. She’d told him to come here today. She was the one who’d set the whole thing up. The buck had to stop somewhere, and that somewhere was with her.
‘Am I talking to myself here? It’s a simple question. Is anyone hungry?’
JJ was still staring at the scratch on the floor. She was aware of heads shaking all around her. Someone whispered ‘no’.
‘So nobody’s hungry? Well I’ve got to tell you, I am starving.’
This is it, thought JJ. He’s going to march us down to the kitchen, and King is going to be discovered and then he’ll be executed and it will be all my fault.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, he picked up the restaurant phone and thumbed it to life. He pressed the handset to the side of his head, wrinkling the balaclava. A couple of seconds passed, then, ‘Louise, darling, have you missed me? How are you getting on with working out what I want?’
A pause.
‘Relax. We can save that for later. I’ve got to tell you, though, I could kill for a pizza.’ A short pause, a laugh. ‘Sorry about that, Lou. I probably just gave you guys a heart attack. When I said I could kill for a pizza, I wasn’t talking literally. It was just a turn of phrase. I guess I should choose my words more carefully, right?’
Another pause.
‘I’d like an extra-large deep pan with ham, mushroom, pepperoni and extra cheese. Actually, make it two. My friends here tell me they’re not hungry but you know how it is when someone walks in with a pizza. The smell gets those stomach juices going and suddenly everyone wants a slice.’
Another pause, another laugh.
‘Now, there’s a question. What am I going to give you in return? Now, why don’t you say what you really mean? You want me to release another hostage, right? They say you can’t put a price on a life, but it looks like you just did. Two pizzas in exchange for a life sounds about right to me, but, I’ve got to tell you, this better be mighty fine pizza. And one more thing, Lou. In case you’re tempted to add a little something to the sauce to put me to sleep, remember the watch. If my heart-rate drops below fifty, then it’s a case of tick, tick boom. Understand? Call me when the pizza gets here.’
The bomber disconnected the call and put the handset down beside the laptop. He turned to face the hostages, staring each one down in turn. ‘I’m guessing the question you’re all asking right now is who gets to go home.’
JJ looked at the scratch on the floor, hardly daring to breathe. That wasn’t the question she was asking. Not even close. The question she was asking was what’s the catch this time?
11
‘I don’t get why the cops don’t just go in there. I mean, there’s got to be like a couple of hundred of them and only one of him. Sure, there’d be some collateral damage, but it’s better to get some hostages out rather than them all dying. Ten per cent of something is always going to be better than ten per cent of nothing, am I right or am I right? The cops are the ones with the guns, and they’ve got their SWAT team, and I say they use it. I mean, what the hell’s the point in having all that firepower if you don’t use it? It makes sense to me. Send in the big guns, that’s what I say.’
Rob Taylor was at the periphery of the crowd, holding out a microphone and nodding like the guy doing the talking was a candidate for Mensa rather than some dumb redneck with a two-figure IQ. MOTS was one acronym guaranteed to strike the fear of God into him. The Man-on-the-Street interview. Basically, he got to stick a microphone in front of a bunch of opinionated assholes and record their views for posterity. Soul-destroying didn’t even begin to cover it.
These jerks could always do it better than the pros, and they always had the answers. Ironically, the one question Rob desperately wanted to ask was the one he couldn’t ask. If they had the answers, then why were they standing talking to him when they could be out there righting all those perceived wrongs?
The redneck guy was still droning on. He’d moved on from the mess the cops were making to the mess that the governor was making over in Sacramento. The next stop would be the mess the president was making at the White House. The guy paused for breath and Rob jumped in to wind the interview up. He could have happily strangled Jonah for making him do this.
The interviews weren’t going out live, which was just as well. If these people could hear themselves they’d probably die on the spot. They thought they sounded so clever, but they didn’t. The way they saw themselves was light years from the reality. The interviews would have to be edited so the dumbass doing the talking didn’t sound quite so dumb, then they’d be used between the main stories to add colour. They also helped filled up airtime, which went back to the twenty-four-hour news station curse of too much time and not enough content. The theory was that they helped make the crisis more accessible to the Average Joe. Rob knew all this, but he still hated doing them.
A small crowd had gathered around him, which was no real surprise. Drop a camera crew anywhere in the US and you could pretty much guarantee a crowd would form. LA was more jaded than the rest of the country because it was the centre of the entertainment industry, but it was still as true here as it was anywhere else. Next up was a middle-aged woman who’d been attractive once upon a time, although that time was long gone. Her roots were showing, and the make-up was there out of necessity rather than for enhancement.
‘So, what do you think of today’s events?’ Rob asked after he’d gone through the preliminaries. Name, age, that sort of thing. It was difficult to dredge up any enthusiasm, artificial or genuine, but he dug deep and managed to find something passable.
‘I love Ed Richards,’ she shrieked in a voice guaranteed to give a headache. ‘I’ve seen all his films. Every single last one. I Just pray to God and Jesus and all the saints that he’s going to be all right. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.’
Her sad little life would carry on exactly as it had always done, thought Rob. The only change would be the object of her obsession. Ed Richards would be replaced by someone else, it didn’t matter who, so long as there was a white knight there to fuel her fantasy of being whisked away into a life of money and privilege. The fact that it was never going to happen was irrelevant. All that mattered was the fantasy. Rob bit his tongue and wished a biblical plague down upon Jonah.
‘Is there anything else you want to add?’
‘Only that I’m thinking about his family. Thinking and praying for them. God only knows what that poor woman and those kids are going through. This must be hell for them.’
The woman went on in this vein for a while, and Rob tuned her out. That voice was like a dentist drill. On the basis of that alone, he doubted Seth would use the interview. Then again, you never knew with Seth. The man was a law unto himself. Rob wound up the interview and looked around for his next victim. A guy in a suit caught his eye, mostly because of the suit. Everyone else was dressed casually. Jeans, T-shirts, shorts, sneakers. Rob walked over to him.
‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
Rob didn’t pu
sh it. Seth wouldn’t use the interview without a name, but there was something about this guy that had got him curious. Part of it was the way he was dressed, although that wasn’t all of it. He was giving off a different vibe to the rest of the crowd. Everyone else was here because they could smell blood, but that wasn’t the case here. This guy exuded an air of detachment, like he was observing from a distance rather than getting carried away by the mood of the mob.
‘So, why have you come here today?’ The enthusiasm in Rob’s voice was real this time. He was genuinely interested in what the guy had to say.
‘Because, I’ve got a vested interest.’
‘You know someone in Alfie’s?’
The guy shook his head and laughed cynically. ‘You’re way off the mark there, my friend.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Because I’ve got a hundred bucks at five-to-one on Ed Richards being the next person to get a bullet.’
12
‘This better be good,’ Seth barked into the phone. ‘It’s coming up to the top of the hour. I don’t need to tell you that you could have picked a better time.’
‘You’re going to want to hear this,’ Rob said.
‘And you’ve got ten seconds.’
‘People are betting on who’s going to die next.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘I’ve never been more serious. I’ve just spoken to a guy. One buck gets him five that Richards is next.’
‘No legitimate bookie’s going to touch that sort of action, but I’m guessing there are plenty of backstreet guys who would.’
‘Backstreet guys. Seth, this is the twenty-first century. You’ve got to stop thinking like Kennedy’s still president.’
‘And you’d better watch your mouth or you’ll be looking for a new job.’