Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  Did you know my real name is Melinda?” She half grinned, half grimaced. “Well, that girl died at the funeral.”

  “Was that the last time you spoke,” Marcus said with a heavy sigh.

  “Last time we met,” corrected Mako as she took another mouthful of champagne. “He tried to call, even wrote to me at my flat in London. I wanted out.” She looked out towards the lights of the Riviera.

  “I left London, set up shop here in Cannes. Then a year ago, a plea came from Robin Vallings,” she said after a pause. “Desperately wanted me to take a call from my father. I caved. When we eventually spoke, he sounded contrite, so I agreed to see him, but only if he came himself to pick me up from the airport instead of sending his chauffeur.” She stopped and made a small grimace.

  “He was side swiped by a truck. Never found the driver. You know the rest. If there isn’t a God, there is at least Karma.” She raised the bottle in salute and finished the last mouthful.

  Marcus found himself connecting with Mako in that moment of extremes of emotion. A strong woman who had bared her soul to a stranger. Vulnerable yet at the same time so strong… and beautiful. He was trying his best to stay focused, but Mako had a sexual allure he could not ignore. He was programmed by nature as much as the next man, but she needed to talk, not be gawked at with teenage-like longing, he chided himself. Instead hoping to change topics and bring her back to the present he cocked his head to one side and asked,

  “And life here? Are you happy?”

  “It’s great,” she said, a little too quickly. “The money, the weather, the beauty. I live every day in the present.”

  Another bottle appeared from the fridge, the boat and the conversation rocking gently on the current.

  “And you?” she asked as the cork eased out with a hiss.

  Marcus gave her a brief resume of his ups and downs and how he had now rolled the dice with FALL OUT.

  “A few big hits checkered by defeat,” summed up Marcus, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Are we checkered at the moment?” Mako asked with genuine concern.

  “Game is still in play,” he smiled.

  Mako laughed and gently punched him. They continued exchanging confidences, the champagne making each revelation more intimate but less threatening as they sat side by side. The night and Marcus and Mako were at peace now.

  The pyrotechnic display long faded, the sky was velvet black pinpricked with the ghostly white and silver of the stars and moon. Mako was relaxed, vaguely aware of the gentle lapping of the waves on the boat’s polished hull.

  She leaned forward and put both her arms around his shoulders. He just couldn’t help closing his eyes and puckering his lips only to hear her laugh. He blushed. The moment cracked like glass. However instead of moving away she gently lifted the badge and its ribbon over his head as it fluttered in the breeze.

  “No use taking that off ” he laughed, “push me over and they can still identify the body.”

  Without responding she flicked off the main forward beam, leaving only the glow of the port and starboard lights, and ambled down to the stainless chrome flagpole jutting out at the end of the boat.

  “You have carte blanche, I see” she murmured, tying the accreditation badge to the flagpole by its ribbon with a neat bow. With that she stepped up onto the sun mattress on the rear deck, unhooked her dress, let it fall from her shoulders, and in the glow of the moonlight, she beckoned.

  A fabulous paradox.

  30

  BEL AIR, LOS ANGELES

  It was a beautiful morning. Pulling on his silk dressing gown and shuffling his feet into velvet monogrammed slippers, Louis walked out to the patio for breakfast al fresco. Benjamin dealt with most of the mail, but always handed him the important envelopes as well as the entertainment industry magazines and The Wall Street Journal. Louis insisted the latter should be ironed to rid it of creases.

  Benjamin knew that butlers only ironed newspapers back in the 1920s to help set the ink used at that time, as it tended to come off on the reader’s hands unless heated. The butler kept that nugget of information to himself. He never made the mistake of making his boss look a fool, even if his pretentiousness made him one.

  Louis finished eating then shook the small silver bell that rested on the table. Reading his paper and not bothering to look up he said, “Benjamin, draw me a bath.”

  The man’s affectations knew no bounds. “Fifteen grand a month in my pocket,” Benjamin muttered as he turned on the bath taps justifying to himself why he put up with this crap.

  Ten minutes later Louis turned on the jets to the Jacuzzi and sank into the churning water.

  The water pummeled his back and thighs, where the cellulite riddled skin quivered like pink jelly.

  Stefan’s death was a relief. Despite all their success, Louis had become increasingly concerned with Stefan and his obsession about family and the reach of his achievements.

  “My success should stretch forward into the future. My art collection a legacy,” he had told Louis during his only visit to Stefan’s Swiss mountain-side retreat.

  “Who cares?” Louis had replied. “Once you’re dead that’s it. Being alive is what counts.”

  Over dinner that night Stefan rambled on about bringing Melinda back into the fold, to make her see sense.

  “I owe her an explanation as to why her mother and I really argued. She needs to know what her mother discovered, what’s in that Buddha head and what it means,” Stefan said.

  “So why don’t I hang onto it?” soothed McConnell. “Just in case.”

  “Trust is not my strong suit, McConnell. The head stays with me. Don't worry. It’s safely tucked away,” he added coolly. “I’ve reached out to her again. This time I got my lawyer to help. She’s agreed to meet me in London. She has to know what we did, accept it…” Stefan said determinedly.

  Louis was certain Stefan’s daughter would reject those overtures but said nothing. He preferred the rift unhealed, with Mako angry at her father, locked into moral free-fall in the south of France.

  Later that night alone in his room in Stefan’s chalet, he rang Jonathan in Los Angeles. He briefly recounted the evening’s discussion and then pondered aloud to Jonathan, “I wonder if it’s such a good idea for Stefan to seek rapprochement with that daughter of his to tell her the whole story.”

  A few weeks later a large curtain-sided truck carrying steel girders violently smashed into Stefan’s car, while he drove to the airport to collect his daughter. The short Asian driver seen leaving the scene made sure he was never found.

  With Stefan dead, Louis was free to retrieve the head which he assumed Stefan had hidden in plain sight among his art collection. He heaved himself out of the bath and lay on a thick towel placed on the black and white marble tiled bathroom floor. He commenced doing his idea of Pilates. Benjamin was standing at the door and imagined his boss more like a beached whale. Satisfied he had done enough to keep the grim reaper at bay and prevent others reading about him in the obituary column, he wandered into his bedroom, followed by Benjamin to get dressed.

  The doorbell rang, and after a few moments Louis heard the clipped footfall of Benjamin’s Oxford brogues as he walked across the marble hallway. A moment later there was a knock at Louis’ dressing room door.

  “Enter,” Louis commanded. Benjamin was preceded by a huge black funnel shaped package with a clear water-filled cellophane bag at its base, finished off with an elaborate purple ribbon.

  “These were at the gate, sir.” He handed Louis the card and began to unwrap the bouquet.

  Benjamin stared open-mouthed at the content. The ugly black and purple flowers were twisted around each other, like a bouquet of barbed wire, exuding an aroma of rot and decay. Louis recognized them immediately. Death Flowers. He opened the small envelope. Inside was a small card embossed with a golden eagle.

  In neat blue fountain pen ink was a note. “You have thirty days to repay me. Haribon.”

  Louis
let the card drop to the floor.

  31

  THÉOULE-SUR-MER, FRANCE

  The next day was to prove full of surprises. Mako woke up in her bedroom and slowly reached out, but Marcus was not there.

  Garance watched with admiration as Marcus, still stark naked, prepared a breakfast tray, over which he had just sprinkled some lavender freshly plucked from a bush in the garden. With the tray balanced on the points of his upturned fingers, Marcus smiled a thank you to Garance as he held the kitchen door open.

  Mako was sitting in bed, her knees drawn tight against her chest, her forehead resting on her knees, the same pose as the figure in bronze outside. The sheets were still tangled around her and she was lost in thought, depressed at waking in an empty room.

  * * *

  “As beautiful as your statue,” murmured Marcus as he snapped a napkin from the tray to put on her lap. “Room service, Ma’moiselle.”

  Surprise.

  She was so happy to see he was still at the house, and just as glad he’d noticed the bronze figure as they had scrambled up the stairs barely three hours earlier. Her expression now radiated joy, edged with a wry smile at the effect his naked torso must have had on Garance.

  The moment was ruined, however, as Marcus tripped and a wave of coffee, fruit, freshly squeezed oranges, yogurt, and croissant fell onto the bed. Through a curtain of juice Mako glared up at him, but only for a moment. Breaking into a wide smile she reached up and grabbed him, pulling him down onto the bed. Laughing they made love again with passion, and for Mako, something unexpected, with affection.

  Another surprise.

  * * *

  A few miles down the coast, Robert and Christo’s breakfast was far more conventional. They were sitting at a lavishly appointed table in the roof garden, Robert engrossed in the trade magazines, Christo snapping the pages of USA Today as he speed-read the articles.

  “Bonjour Messieurs,” said a voice coming up the wide spiral staircase.

  Yvette appeared with a dazzling array of French pastries, juice, even bacon and eggs. Smiling at her charges, she swiftly laid out everything on the white cloth covering the glass topped table. Looking up as she smoothed the linen, she took in the view of the sea, glinting in the fresh morning sunlight. Cannes was slowly waking up. The shutters in front of shops could be heard clattering as they opened and the previous evening’s carousers were either gulping down aspirins or jogging along the shore.

  After laying out the breakfast to her satisfaction she sighed “Comme il fait beau ce matin,” more to herself than to Robert and Christo. “Perhaps Monsieur would like to see the flower market” Yvette asked having noticed Christo peering with a semi-professional air at some of the plants in the garden?

  “Yes, very much,” said Christo brightening at the suggestion.

  “Maybe something in purple for your room,” smiled Yvette.

  “No” said Robert, so firmly that it made Yvette jump. Christo gently took Yvette’s hand and whispered to her.

  “I’m sorry. Purple flowers… they bring back bad memories. In the jungle, Robert came across evil smelling purple flowers. Death flowers they called them. They grow by graves. We never have purple flowers in the house.”

  Yvette nodded her understanding.

  Christo turned back to Robert. “Ok, Robert. Can we get you anything in town, a box of apologies to keep by your chair to regularly offer to Yvette…?”

  “Yvette, I’m sorry. Now will you two leave me in peace to wait for Marcus to beg me to help him?” smiled the director.

  “Never push a man too far, he might bite back,” scolded Christo.

  Robert waved his hand asking for quiet and dismissing the advice.

  * * *

  Exhausted, Mako lay looking up at the ceiling. “Garance always has the sheets laundered in town, but these may raise a few eyebrows,” she smiled tracing her finger of the small crescent shaped scar over his left eyebrow. “Someone get jealous,” she teased him?

  “Forgot to duck… when a boom swung across the deck of a sailboat. Hence I prefer speedboats.”

  “Me too. I never trust the wind.”

  “I think I need a shower,” said Marcus as he picked off a sliver of croissant that had somehow attached itself to his butt. As he rolled out of bed, he grabbed Mako’s arm and in one swift move, hoisted her in a fireman’s lift onto his shoulder.

  “And from a long habit formed by boarding school,” he said, “I always have a cold one.”

  Garance looked up from his work in the kitchen and smiled as he heard the joyful shriek from Mako, not realizing it was simply caused by the cold water from the shower.

  Ten minutes later as Marcus toweled them both dry, he looked at the crumpled pile of clothes on the floor.

  “I need to get back to the hotel and change… and pack I suppose. Know anywhere I can get a bed for the next few days?”

  Mako pushed him playfully in the chest. “If you want to come with me, we leave now. I have a client to see this morning.”

  She opened the bedroom door and called, “Garance, do we have clothes that will fit this gentleman in the stash we keep for such situations?” Glancing over her shoulder she saw the look on Marcus’ face.

  “What, you don’t keep spare panties for the girl who might drop by?” she said with an exaggerated batting of her eyelids.

  Sure enough Garance found some clothes, expensive and neatly pressed. He also produced a small grip bag for Marcus’ creased ones. Garance looked at the breakfast spread in pieces all over the bed and then at his mistress.

  “You going grocery shopping? I will be back at midday. We are heading out soon. I am taking Mr. Riley with me into town… what do you think? Do we let him back in tonight after such a mess?” she asked teasingly.

  “If it pleases Madame.” Garance replied with just a hint of a smile. As they left the room Mako blew Garance a kiss. She seemed genuinely happy.

  More surprises.

  32

  CANNES, FRANCE

  Despite the bright start to the day, the gusts of an incoming storm blew away the effects of lack of sleep as Marcus rested his arm on Mako’s shoulder and the boat headed to Cannes. Regardless of the shared passion of the previous night, he had been given a firm rebuff when he asked if he could pilot the Riva.

  “You stick to your cars… this is my domain. Anyway, you’ll probably just bang another part of your body” she told him.

  As they pulled into the harbor Marcus patted his pockets to check for phone and wallet as well as instinctively reaching up for the accreditation badge. He turned as he remembered what Mako had done with it, but it was no longer attached to the pole. She saw his look of concern.

  “If it fell in the sea, forget it. Garance may have untied it, he usually checks the boat each morning. I’ll call him when he gets back from town.”

  Marcus gestured towards his cell. “Can we call him now?”

  “Garance doesn’t have one. He believes a phone should only be attached to a cord. However, I do have one.” She smiled. “Good luck with the director. Call me when you’re finished.” She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. “And don’t worry about your badge. I’m sure Garance has it.”

  She reached into her handbag and holding a small business card between the fingers and thumb of both hands, bowed slightly and handed it to Marcus in the respectful manner used throughout Asia.

  “Gănxiè nĭ, thank you,” Marcus said remembering one of the few phrases he knew in Chinese. He bowed back.

  “Nĭ huānyíng,” she replied. “You’re welcome!” With that she jumped onto the dock and was gone, completely focused now on another day of work.

  Marcus took a stroll back past the mega yachts and got into a cab at the taxi rank in front of the Palais. Once back at the Hôtel du Cap he packed his bag and checked out. Before he headed to meet Kelso, Marcus directed the taxi the short distance towards the restaurant Le Bacon, where he asked the driver to wait while he put his bag into his
car and paid the restaurant his usual fee for being allowed to park there. After his meeting with Robert, he would return to collect the Maserati and drive down to Mako’s lair. His phone vibrated and there was a text message from Mako. “Garance sez badge must have fallen in2 Med. C U later. xx. Mako. p.s. another call re script last nite, Garance gave my message, read it then threw out with the trash!!”

  * * *

  Marcus spent the short taxi ride going over the pitch he had prepared to entice Robert to direct FALL OUT. He was precisely on time as he punched in the security code Kelso had given him and entered the elevator to the apartment. A few moments later he opened the doors into the Penthouse.

  “Robert, it’s Marcus,” he called out. No response. He was a little surprised there was no staff there nor could he hear a response from the director.

  Kelso’s copy of FALL OUT lay on a table in the small entrance hallway. There were notes in the margin and Marcus picked it up, idly flicking through the pages and walking towards the main room. He figured they would refer to it in their meeting and was encouraged by the work Kelso had done. He felt relieved. Kelso was taking it seriously.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. The director was standing in front of him, but behind the glass wall of the swimming pool, an arm outstretched as if in greeting. A thin wisp of red was curling away in the water from his forehead as his vacant eyes stared back at Marcus.

  Marcus ran to the glass banging it with his fists as if trying to wake the director up. Kelso’s left leg was securely fastened to the concrete base of a sun parasol sunk at the bottom of the deep end. He stared at the corpse floating in its limpid blue world as an accreditation badge whose ribbon was clenched in Robert’s hand slowly twisted in the water. The picture grinned back at him. It was Marcus’ face, Marcus’ badge.