Last Long Drop

by Mike Safe

  Harcourt waited from him to continue. ‘So what will you do after this book?’

  It was an awkward moment as Harrison seemed momentarily lost in his own private thoughts. ‘I’m not sure – watch the sun come up and go down for a while, drink some expensive wine, see a few places I’ve never seen … When I write again, if I write again, maybe I’ll go back to novels. What about a romance? Man meets woman, man loses woman, man wins woman back as seen through the eyes of Edmund Harrison. Why not? Lord knows I’ve had my share of firsthand experience in that subject. That’ll get the critics going – after they’ve finished with me as far as this one is concerned, of course.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Am I? Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.’ Harrison, empty glass in hand, looked off into some sort of middle distance as if alone in the crowded room.

  Suddenly Tess was back, standing in front of them with Kirsten by her side. It snapped the pair of them out of the strange digression that had overtaken their conversation, at least in Harcourt’s mind.

  Tess handed both of them fresh glasses – Harcourt a gin and tonic and Harrison another of whatever was the dark stuff he’d been drinking. There was no sign of Silas as Kirsten was introduced.

  ‘Ah, the daughter,’ said Harrison.

  They shook hands and Harcourt noticed Kirsten’s professionalism was well in place. There was no gushing, no star-struck carry on.

  Thank god for that, he thought and almost in the same moment admonished himself for thinking his daughter would do anything else when it came to her job.

  Along with Tess, they started to talk about the website interview for the following morning and so Harcourt excused himself and turned away to find Tess’s boss, Billy Duane, drink in hand, a large tumbler of something else that was dark, weaving his way through the crowd.

  ‘Hey, Johno!’ Billy’s New York accent cut through the crowd din like an ocean liner’s horn through fog.

  ‘Hey, Billy, didn’t see you there in the mob. Good turnout, eh?’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Billy, never backward in coming forward, grabbed at his sleeve, spilling some of his drink in the process as he pulled Harcourt to the side of the room.

  ‘Listen, Johno,’ his voice now a hoarse whisper as if the fog horn had suddenly had a pile of wadding stuffed inside it. ‘I don’t know if Tess has bit off more than she can chew with this one. Harrison’s a piece of work and he’s fucking us over good with this stunt of his. New York knows that he instigated the whole thing, the smart ass, but they also know she hardly tried to discourage him, not a good move when the publication of the book stands to be compromised.’

  Billy took a slug of his drink and growled on. ‘And you know his reputation, right? Can’t keep his pants zipped. I mean, we might all have had a turn in our time, but this guy’s perfected it into an art form. It’s part of his shtick, part of his image – the sweet talker with the playboy eye, righting the evils of the big bad world while charming the panties off of ’em in the process. Jesus, look at him at work over there – oh, hell, I didn’t notice that was your daughter.’

  Startled, Harcourt glanced back over his shoulder and saw Harrison in what looked like deep if not necessarily meaningful conversation with Kirsten. He talked, she laughed. She talked, he laughed. Tess, with a fixed smile on her face, had seemingly been left to listen to their exchanges.

  ‘Sorry, Johno,’ grouched Billy. ‘But like I already told you, Edmund Harrison is an asshole.’

  EIGHT

  Vinnie Vincenso, or the man Harcourt guessed was Vinnie Vincenso, sat at a large glass-and-chrome coffee table opposite Amanda Peers. Both rose as he entered Amanda’s high-rise city office. Off to the side of a large neat and tidy desk was a workbench piled with haphazard stacks of books and reams of proofs.

  Vincenso was over-tanned and shrunken with age, his skin like that of a wrinkled prune, but there was a twinkle in his dark eyes and a sense of mischief in his smile that revealed a startling set of perfectly white teeth that could only be false. What hair that remained looked like newly laid bitumen, jet black and slicked down with some sort of oil. He wore shiny steel-framed glasses and a loud pinstriped suit. Amanda Peers appeared hulking alongside the pared-down Vinnie. She had wildly rumpled fair hair and wore a voluminous bright yellow dress that did her ample figure no favours. There was a slightly out of breath way about her, all hustle and bustle, as she made the introductions and buzzed for her personal assistant, who turned out to be a younger and downsized version of herself, to fetch a cup of coffee for Harcourt.

  After a minimum of pleasantries it was down to business.

  ‘Look, John, Mr Vincenso is here today at the request of Mr Vargas,’ Amanda announced. ‘With this project they want to see if you might be the writer for it. I believe Mr Vargas and you have some favourable, if brief, history and he would like to meet you to talk about what would be expected.’ She paused, either to catch her breath, or for emphasis. ‘To be frank, and Mr Vincenso and I have already had discussions about this, Montacue Publishing is not sure if this is the way we would want to proceed. The fact is we have several film writers with proven track records under contract in the United States and Britain and would prefer if the book was put in the hands of one of them. I’m not doubting your ability – as we know, you’ve had a long and successful career in newspaper feature writing and so you understand the meaning of deadlines and, I must acknowledge, newspaper people I’ve dealt with in the past have been quite reliable on that front. But a book of this stature and considerable sales potential is of the utmost importance to us and will be a mammoth task – indeed, more of a marathon than a sprint and will mean a substantial undertaking of time and effort.’ She paused and then, as if confessing what wasn’t already obvious, added, ‘There’s a lot riding on it, you might say.’

  She smiled, principally at Vinnie Vincenso who was sitting there with an almost amused look on his face. ‘But, of course, Mr Vargas brings his own set of requirements that will have to be addressed before he signs on for the project and so, as you can see, there are matters to be resolved before any of us can proceed.’

  There was an empty silence. Finally Vinnie leaned forward in his chair. ‘Oh, as we’ve already discussed, Amanda, Mike’s totally committed to the book, I assure you of that. This thing will be written and it will be big, very big – and Mike’s happy to do it with Montacue Publishing, if it can all be brought together to his satisfaction, of course.’

  He grinned at Harcourt, his whiter than white teeth a distraction. Okay, thought Harcourt, the wily old guy’s enjoying this.

  ‘John – your friends call you Johno, isn’t that right? Okay if I do the same?’ Vinnie asked.

  Harcourt nodded, thinking how did he know that?

  ‘Johno, like I told Amanda here, Mike is keen to tell his story, the good and, well, some other stuff too, but it must be in his voice. Sure, he’s an international star, a superstar, and has been for a long time but he remains an Aussie in heart and mind. Right from day one when he went to Hollywood and after those years of battling for a break, he’s made sure to keep it that way. I mean, he might have gone on to play Egyptian pharaohs, Spanish pirates, cowboy gunslingers, New York private eyes, but once the camera and lights are off he’s always back to being Mike Vargas. Sure, there’ve been ups and downs along the way …’ Vincenso’s grin was even broader now, ‘The three wives for a start, the occasional barroom rumpus and crashed car, but, hey, he’s still one of us – an Aussie guy who hasn’t forgotten where he came from. And now he wants his story told by someone who can appreciate that, who can capture the essence of where he’s from and what that means to him, who can put those words, that passion, on the page.’

  Vargas might have been born in Australia, the son of a Greek immigrant, Harcourt thought, but wasn’t Vinnie from Italy, or so Mudguts had said. Whatever the case, Vinnie was turning on one heck of a snow job as he played the true blue Aussie card for all it was worth.

&
nbsp; ‘I can appreciate that,’ said Harcourt. ‘I mean, Australians retain a real feeling for Mike, there’s no doubt about that. I’m flattered that he would think I might be the one to do his book.’

  He could almost sense Amanda squirming in her seat. Vargas, through Vinnie, his mouthpiece, was in the driver’s seat now, for the moment at least, and there was nothing she or all the worldwide power of Montacue Publishing could do about that – and Harcourt was happy to be invited along for the ride.

  ‘Well, let’s see how it all plays out, shall we?’ said Amanda. She managed another smile of sorts. ‘The sooner we get it worked out the better.’

  It turned out that Vargas was up at his Noosa property, and it would be great, according to Vinnie, if Harcourt could fly up to meet him and ‘shoot the breeze a bit,’ even stay a night.

  ‘See if you two hit it off,’ said Vinnie. ‘You know the sort of thing – give it a go as they say.’

  Amanda’s nose wrinkled and she hastily brought the meeting to a close.

  So Harcourt’s trip north had been foreseen and was already booked with a flight arranged for two days ahead. He noted the details and Vinnie gave him a printout of his ticket, detailing how he would be met at the nearest touchdown point, the Sunshine Coast Airport at Maroochydore, by Vargas’s man of many purposes, Dexter Dutton, who would then drive him up to Noosa.

  Bloody hell, they saw me coming, Harcourt thought, as he and Vinnie shook hands with Amanda. He wondered if he should have played it more low key, less eager. Whatever … it was too late now.

  On the ride down in the lift, Vinnie Vincenso cracked his toothy smile and said, ‘That Amanda’s one piece of hard work, eh?’

  ‘Well, I guess she’s used to being in charge around here.’ Harcourt knew it was in his best interest to align himself with the Vargas side of the issue.

  Vinnie laughed, a sort of hoarse cackle. ‘Oh, for sure. I think we can safely say Miss Peers loves being in charge, but there’s a lot of water to flow under the bridge on this one and she’ll be paddling up stream for a bit yet.’

  Talk about mashing your clichés. They exited the lift and stood facing one another in the echo chamber foyer of the high rise building.

  Vinnie fixed his dark eyes on Harcourt with intent. ‘Look, Johno, like I said to her up there I now say to you down here and with emphasis. Mike is deadly serious about this book whether these know-alls come on board or not. He knows the years are getting on and that he needs to get this stuff down on paper and soon – have it told his way. There’s so much bullshit out there now – the web, all the social media rubbish, people who know nothing but think they know everything and so they just go ahead and say whatever they want. The truth is you can’t afford to fight all that any more – it’s beyond control. Even if you try to take these gossip mongers down, they just gang up on you and you’re left trying to put out a hundred other spot fires.’

  He paused for breath. For a guy of his age it was probably necessary, but he gave the impression he could still give as good as he got and then some. ‘So Mike wants this to be a good book, a true book, about his life, his thoughts and in his words. As you probably know, he and I have a long history. I knew his dad and he was a hard-arsed Greek son of a bitch when he wanted to be – and I can tell you Mike is just the same. I’ve never met anyone who had such a vision and went out and made it happen by his own force of will – and talent, of course.’ Vinnie reached inside his suit coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, thought about firing one up with an ancient Zippo lighter and then realised smoking was banned in the foyer. ‘Fuck it, they get you every which way now, don’t they?’

  He smiled his shiny white teeth smile again. ‘Look, Johno, this movie he’s building up to now – he’s had the script reworked and is sorting through it up at Noosa. He’s not completely happy – there’s still work to do on it. This film will be a big throw of the dice for him. Like I say, there are plenty out there, both here and in Hollywood, who would be happy to see him crash and burn. He’s made his share of enemies, but ever since he got the power he’s done it his way and this time won’t be any different.’

  ‘So what’s it about, any idea when it will start shooting?’ ‘Mike can tell you all about that, or as much as he wants to tell at this stage. Let’s get your guys together for a start. But the movie will be an eye-opener, although, like I say, this is only the beginning. There’s a long way to go.’

  Vinnie gestured towards the heavy sliding glass doors and they moved outside, the traffic din now reverberating around them as the cigarettes and Zippo came out again and he finally got to light up. With a bus rumbled by, Vinnie leaned in close and rasped smoker’s breath into Harcourt’s face, ‘But, hey, get on up to Noosa and have a good time – catch a few waves or whatever you surfer types call it. One thing Mike always does, rain, hail or shine, is have a good time.’

  He was dreaming about snakes again. They were all around him, big and small, all the colours of the rainbow, like in that wacky film Snakes On A Plane. He was trapped in an anonymous room without windows and no handle on the only door – he couldn’t get out, no matter how hard he pushed and slammed at it with his fists. There was no one else in there with him, just snakes everywhere, across the floor, on the walls and now a big black one about to crawl up his leg.

  The dream came around now and then in various forms, sometimes he was inside, sometimes outside, sometimes with others, sometimes, like this, alone, but whatever the situation Harcourt didn’t like it, not one bit. He had a thing about creepy crawlies in their many forms – spiders, bugs, insects, lizards and especially snakes. Now here they were slithering around inside his sleep again.

  At one stage, he had gone so far as to look up that font of all knowledge, the internet, to see what snake dreams were supposed to represent. The suggestions covered all sorts of subliminal ponderings from an abundance of energy that wasn’t being fully used to the stirring of instinctive, deep-seated feelings about everything from sex to survival. None of that made much sense, although he had to admit his survival instincts had been given a thorough examination during the big cyclone swell of the now-fading summer.

  Whatever the answer, the snakes were worrying him and somewhere in his subconscious he knew it was time to wake up. Somehow, he was able to trick his brain into doing this and so his bad dreams, be they about snakes or anything else, rarely tipped over into nightmares, or so he reckoned.

  But now there was something else – a phone was ringing somewhere and it wasn’t part of his dream. Tess had left for Adelaide the previous day to prepare for Writers’ Week, Edmund Harrison in tow along with the ongoing clamour of his visit, and so Harcourt had the house and bed to himself. Hence it could only be his phone, which, as usual, was not readily at hand. His pillow damp with sweat, he sat up to look for it, glancing at the bedside clock – three twenty-eight the cool green numerals glimmered back at him – and there was his phone, ringing and glowing away, half hidden under the bed.

  Fuzzy headed from sleep and his snake dream, he didn’t bothering checking the caller ID. Ringing phones at such a forsaken hour were never about courteousness anyway – and rarely meant good news.

  ‘Hello,’ he rasped.

  ‘Dad, it’s me.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s dead, Dad. Elmore’s dead.’

  ‘What? What’s happened?’ He heard Jack take in and exhale a long breath.

  ‘He was out at a club. Then was mugged after leaving. He got bashed and hit his head on the gutter and then whoever it was got stuck into him on the ground, kicked him in the head …’

  ‘Were you there? Are you all right?’ Now Harcourt was wide awake, his heart kicking into overdrive.

  ‘Nah, I was here, asleep. Me and the other guys only found out about it a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Thank god for that.’ It was Harcourt’s turn to suck in a deep breath. ‘Now,
tell me what you know. Who’s helping you out over there?’

  It turned out the Solar Sons’ manager Sissy Broughton had returned to London the previous day to finally sort out what was to happen with their album, what songs would end up on it and if there was to be any re-recording. She was now with the detectives who were investigating Elmore’s death. ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ Jack said, a numbness in his voice.

  From what he had been told so far, Elmore had gone out drinking with a couple of the guys from the record company. Elmore had been increasingly drawn in tight with these two, leaving Jack and the others in the band somewhere on the periphery. ‘I mean, on the nights we aren’t playing, which, let’s face it, is most nights of the week at this stage, he often headed out late with them. I admit I’ve never liked them much – a couple of dickheads in my opinion. They don’t really have an idea of what we’re about, well, what we were about back in Australia at least. For whatever reason, they want to change the sound. We’re dumb colonials for a start – what do we know, seems to be their attitude. They’re just a couple of PR and marketing burnouts who are lucky to have jobs.’

  He paused, as if considering what to say next, and then went on, ‘The fact is Elmore’s been on something pretty well since we’ve been here. I don’t know – that was his business as far as I was concerned as long as it didn’t interfere with the music, with what we’re here for. I mean, there’s stuff everywhere here. All sorts of meth, speed – every upper you can think of and then the downers. You can get a decent wack of whatever for ten quid or even less and there’s messed up people everywhere, lots of them just kids. I mean, it exists back home too – but not as much as here. Well, not that I’ve noticed. It’s crazy … and those two dickheads have been leading Elmore down that path, I’d reckon.’

  ‘You haven’t been mixed up in that have you?’ Harcourt regretted the words almost before they were out of his mouth.