Hoag: Some business to take care of in town.
Scarr: (voice indistinct) Right now?
Hoag: Writers work twenty-four hours a day, Tristam. Even when we’re asleep our worst nightmares are supplying us with fresh material.
Scarr: (voice indistinct) And here I’ve gone and opened a bottle of champers for us. What a waste.
Hoag: Would that be Dom Perignon?
Scarr: (voice indistinct) I’m afraid so.
Hoag: Well … maybe you ought to hop in. It is awfully cold out there.
Scarr: (laughs) Indeed. (Sound of car door opening, slamming shut. Voice much clearer now) Nothing quite like the bubbly, is there?
Hoag: Nope. (silence) Ahh … It’s particularly good at killing the taste of that punch. Here you go …
Scarr: I’d better hold off for a bit, actually. I’m afraid I’ll pass out on my guests if I have any more. You go ahead.
Hoag: Don’t mind if I do.
Scarr: Funny. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in this car before.
Hoag: It’s quite slow. But it gets there.
Scarr: And where is it going?
Hoag: You covered your tracks well, my friend.
Scarr: My tracks?
Hoag: Of course, getting shot at did throw me off for a while. I made the mistake of thinking that it was part of the big picture. It wasn’t. It was just Violet messing with Jack’s head. Funny thing is it was also Violet who helped me figure it all out. Your little girl really fouled things up for you, Tristam. It was she who stole the one piece of evidence that could give you away—the photograph. Tulip didn’t have it. It wasn’t in her album. I have it now. And as soon as I get into London, the police will have it. All of it. (pause) You know, it was Derek who had the keenest insight into you. He told me you are, at heart, an actor. I didn’t realize just how gifted, how convincing an actor you are. Our entire collaboration has been one extended performance. All along, you’ve given me precisely what you thought I needed. I needed a bombshell, you gave me a bombshell—you told me someone had murdered Puppy. After I discussed it with the others I dismissed it as paranoid nonsense. But it wasn’t that at all, was it? It was a shrewd ploy to push any suspicion off of yourself. Who would ever think you killed Puppy, especially if you were the one who brought the whole thing up in the first place? I needed intimate personal revelations, you gave me intimate personal revelations. Our breakthrough about your troubled childhood—a performance.
Scarr: You’d have quit that day if I hadn’t given you that. You’d been shot at.
Hoag: Why didn’t you just let me quit? You should have.
Scarr: I need a great book. You’re the person who can give me one.
Hoag: Besides, you’d gotten away with all of this for so many years you figured you’d never get caught, didn’t you? … Rock of Ages was the album that meant the most to you. It was the most you. And it was your first failure. You couldn’t accept that. You couldn’t accept that the critics hated it, that your fans hated it. Your swollen, drugged-out ego couldn’t allow for that. So you blamed Puppy. It was his fault. It was because of him you couldn’t tour-support it in America. That ate away at you. Puppy ate away at you. He got the attention, the acclaim, the stardom. Him, not you. Who the hell was he, anyway? Some black drummer. It drove you mad. “More for Me”—that’s your personal anthem. More for me, me, me. That’s been your anthem all along, hasn’t it? (silence) Hasn’t it?
Scarr: Go ahead and tell it.
Hoag: It was you who turned Puppy on to the supercharged speed at Rory’s house that day. You couldn’t risk buying it through Jack, so you got it from a scuzzy London drug dealer you knew, named Bob. Known lately as Father Bob. No one could find the pills at the time because you pocketed them. What did Puppy think, that you were taking some, too?
Scarr: Pup didn’t care one way or the other. He’d have swallowed drain cleaner if he thought it would give him a rush.
Hoag: Things went along just great for you after that. With Puppy gone, you and Rory just got bigger and bigger. Became superstars. Millionaires. Idols. But there was always that one nagging problem between you, wasn’t there? Tulip. Rory kept taking her away from you. Your oldest and best mate kept taking your woman away from you. She told me that no woman could mean as much to you two as you did to each other. She was wrong. Sharing her made you crazy. That’s what was tormenting you when you lived out in Los Angeles. That’s why you shot smack. Why you drank so much. You loved her. She was the only woman you ever loved. You couldn’t stand having to share her with him. Having to share everything with him. The stage. The spotlight. The money. It was always the two of you. Rory and T. S. Double Trouble. Us, instead of me. But you couldn’t kill him. Not like Puppy. So you split up. Only that wasn’t so hot either. His solo album did great. You couldn’t even finish one. You needed him. That was really hard for you to swallow. It put you in the hospital. But you did swallow it. You reunited, complete with hugs and kisses. Toured as Johnny Thunder and the Lightnings—mates, like the old days. No hoopla. No drugs. You could hold your feelings in check. Besides, you and Tulip were together again. Things were going good between you. Until she had the baby, and made you choose between her and your career. Poor Tulip. No way she could win that one. And then you and Rory went on your big ’76 tour, and it all started coming back to the surface again, didn’t it? The hate. The resentment. Especially when his coking got so heavy you had to start canceling shows. You freaked. Called up an L.A. acquaintance of yours from back in ’68, when you hung out for a while there with Dennis Wilson. You reacted a little strangely when I referred to him one day while we were working. You went out of your way to insist you and Wilson had never been friends, it seemed odd to me at the time. But you had a very good reason. Because Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys had a houseguest off and on in ’68, a struggling musician named Charles Manson. Manson and his family stayed with Wilson. One of those family members was Larry Lloyd Little. The two of you got to know each other at Wilson’s in October of ’68. That’s the date on the back of the picture Tulip took of you and Larry having a merry chat together. That’s the photo you were looking for.
Scarr: You’ve got it back there with the other things, have you?
Hoag: Of course.
Scarr: May I? (rustling sounds) Oh, yes. That’s it, all right. You didn’t make a copy, did you?
Hoag: No.
Scarr: You wouldn’t be lying?
Hoag: You’re not thinking clearly, Tristam. If I was going to lie I’d say I did make a copy so you wouldn’t be able to kill me yet. You’d have to track it down first. (pause) You are going to kill me, aren’t you?
Scarr: Yes, I am. And your point is well taken. Do go on with the story. I’m fascinated.
Hoag: When the Manson family came to trial, Larry Lloyd Little became a witness for the prosecution. He got out in a few years. He was out in ’76, when you decided Rory had to die. You convinced him to do it for you, and in a most dramatic fashion. How did you manage that? Did you tell him Rory was some kind of force of evil?
Scarr: (laughs) Nothing quite so complicated, Hogarth. Larry was a pimp. I paid him five thousand dollars.
Hoag: Figuring the police would gun him down on the spot.
Scarr: If they hadn’t, I would have. I had a gun with me on stage, in case I needed it.
Hoag: You made Rory into a rock ‘n’ roll martyr. Kept him forever young. That’s how you justify to yourself what you did. The truth is that he was your oldest and best mate and you had him murdered. But you’ve twisted the truth to suit you. You’ve twisted everything to suit you. That’s what this memoir is all about—putting your lies down on paper so as to make them into truth … You had the limelight all to yourself now Rory was gone. Why did you give it up? Retreat here? And why are you choosing to come back now?
Scarr: What I told you before was true—I’d had it with the T. S. persona. I wanted to grow. I couldn’t as long as Rory was around for me to fall back on.
>
Hoag: When you end a friendship, you really end it, don’t you?
Scarr: It was necessary. As were the past few years I’ve spent alone here. I’ve been able to study, learn new instruments, experiment with new sounds …
Hoag: Everything was going fine until the day Pamela gave you my message about going to see Tulip’s photo album. And something clicked. You’d forgotten about the one thing that could actually link you to Rory’s murder. You’d forgotten about that photograph. And so had she. She hadn’t looked in the album for years. She told me she couldn’t. And she obviously didn’t remember about you and Larry knowing each other.
Scarr: Her brain was quite thoroughly scrambled.
Hoag: Yes. It was all a blur, she said. Of course, there was always the chance she would remember. Enter your pal Father Bob. You’d been paying him off to keep quiet ever since he sold you the speed that killed Puppy. You even made his dreams come true. You set him up as a resident neighborhood guru. Financed his church, paid him a salary—it beat killing him. And it came in real handy when Tulip started getting into God in a serious way. You steered her right to him, just in case she did remember about Larry and felt like confiding in somebody evangelical. It was easy for you to manipulate her behavior. All you had to do was condemn him and she’d make a beeline right for him. He kept an eye on her for you. It turned out not to be necessary. Tulip never did remember about you and Larry Lloyd Little. Not until you came to see her and demanded that picture. Then she knew. And you had to kill her. You made it look like a break-in to confuse the police.
Scarr: (silence) I never wanted to kill her. But I had to—she said she would tell the police about me. She loathed me, you see, because Violet had left her for me. She blamed me for ruining Violet. (pause) I had to kill her.
Hoag: You played dumb when I mentioned her photo album on the way to the funeral. You said you had no recollection of it—just another facet of your fine overall performance. Except for one little slip. When I said she had photos from all over the place, including Los Angeles, there was a flicker in your eyes. You were wondering if somehow I knew. I didn’t. But for an instant, you wondered. And you let it show.
Scarr: My guard was down. I was mourning the mother of my child.
Hoag: Whom you’d killed. And you didn’t stop there. Things were in danger of unraveling now. The police knew that Father Bob had been a drug dealer. He was a loose end. He could talk. With Tulip dead there was no reason to keep him alive, so you killed him, too, and made it look like another break-in. Neat and tidy. (pause) I’m curious about the others. Derek, Marco, Jack … have they ever known?
Scarr: No. Never.
Hoag: They weren’t aware you knew Larry Lloyd Little?
Scarr: They weren’t around when I was mates with Dennis. I was on holiday after our tour. Just me and Tulip.
Hoag: But Jack was so opposed to my looking into the past. Why?
Scarr: He has a good life here with me. He was afraid you’d upset the present order.
Hoag: He was right.
Scarr: Yes.
Hoag: I thought I understood you, Tristam. Clearly, I didn’t. I don’t. Help me understand you.
Scarr: What for? You aren’t going to finish our book.
Hoag: Indulge me—for friendship’s sake.
Scarr: I don’t expect you can understand me. Not by applying your morality to me.
Hoag: It doesn’t apply to you?
Scarr: T. S. is not everyone else.
Hoag: You honestly think you’re above the rules that we, as semicivilized people, set upon ourselves?
Scarr: Anyone who succeeds as I have—to the very top—has ignored those rules. They’ve lied, cheated, stolen …
Hoag: You’ve killed four people, Tristam. You’re about to make it five. No one has a right to do that.
Scarr: You disappoint me, Hogarth. Being that you respect greatness, I thought you would appreciate what I’ve accomplished. I thought you would understand.
Hoag: (pause) “Whatever it takes …” That’s what Derek said you were willing to do. I guess you’ve just gone—
Scarr: Farther than the others dare to go. Precisely. It’s fear that brings the little people up short. They’d do just as I have if they had the balls. But they haven’t, the poor sods. They’re afraid they’ll get caught. They’re weak. I’m not. I’ve the balls to take what I want. (pause) And now, at long last, it’s my time. A new image, thanks to the work you and I have done. New start. New sound. Mine. A double album, I think. A video. A return tour. The body isn’t what it was, but otherwise I’m better than ever. Richer. Fuller.
Hoag: How do you live with yourself, Tristam?
Scarr: Whatever I’ve done has been necessary. It had to be done, or I wouldn’t have done it.
Hoag: How nice. How very, very …
Scarr: (silence) You were saying?
Hoag: I was … I was just thinking how comforting it must be to be a psychopath … Kind of the ultimate form of self-indulgence, wouldn’t you say?
Scarr: I’ve enjoyed our talks. I’ll miss them.
Hoag: (silence) Yeah, I … Care for the last of the champers?
Scarr: You go right ahead.
Hoag: (silence) Must have had more to drink than I … Feeling kinda …
Scarr: Yes?
Hoag: Was getting fond of you, Tristam.
Scarr: Likewise.
Hoag: You were one of my idols. Haven’t many left. Come to think of it, haven’t any …
Scarr: Sorry if I disappointed you.
Hoag: How you going to do it?
Scarr: It will look like suicide.
Hoag: Why am I … ?
Scarr: Your failed writing career, I expect.
Hoag: Oh, that … Guess I’d buy it.
Scarr: And the police will as well.
Hoag: You know what I was thinking, Tristam? If everyone in the world was … was like you … the world would go to hell.
Scarr: Welcome to hell. Scarr’s the name. Shall I take that empty bottle from you, Hogarth? (silence) Hogarth? (Silence, followed by sound of car engine starting, then idling. Papers rustle. Car door opens, closes. Faintly, the sound of garage door sliding shut. Then the sound of engine idling.)
(end tape)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“YOU COULD HAVE BEEN killed,” fumed Merilee as she knelt there beside me, her brow creased with concern, her eyes big and shiny.
“I wasn’t,” I assured her, though I wasn’t a hundred percent sure of it myself.
I was sitting on the gravel in front of the garage with my head throbbing. I was seriously groggy. Pamela kept waving spirits of ammonia under my nose and I kept waving them away. Lulu was watching me from beside Merilee, a low moan coming from her throat. From the main house came the sounds of music and laughter and voices. The party was still going strong.
“Up we go now, Hoagy,” ordered Pamela, placing her hands under my arms and hoisting me none too gently to my feet. “We’ve got to keep you up and about or you’ll be of no use to anyone.
She held onto one arm. Merilee took the other. The two of them began to walk me around the driveway on my rubbery legs.
“What if he’d had a gun?” demanded Merilee. “What if he’d just shot you instead of … of … ?
“I’d be dead,” I replied. “The point is, I’m not. And I got him to show his hand. It’s all on tape.”
Root came out of the garage. He was shaking his head. It was Root who’d found me in the front seat of the Peugeot, out cold, about a half hour after T. S. had served me the drugged champagne and shut me in the garage with the car’s engine running. It was Root who’d dragged me out into the fresh, cold air. He’d fetched the others at my request, after I started to come to.
“I don’t see any tape recorder, Hoagy,” Root said.
“I hid it under the driver’s seat,” I told him.
He nodded and went back in the garage. “Got it,” he called, returning with the recorder. “
Car is empty otherwise. He took your papers, tapes, all of it.”
That was no problem. I’d made copies of everything, including the photograph. T. S. had bought my story that he was holding onto the only copy. It hadn’t occurred to him I’d want him to kill me then and there—or to go ahead and try.
“Hoagy, darling?”
“Yes, Merilee?”
“Why aren’t you dead?”
“Quite,” agreed Pamela. “You should have died in there from the carbon monoxide.”
“Oh, that. The Peugeot’s a diesel. Can’t kill someone from carbon monoxide poisoning by locking them in a garage with a diesel.”
“Why not?” asked Root, frowning.
“Diesel engines don’t produce carbon monoxide,” I replied. “Or hardly any—not like gas engines do. The combustion systems are totally different. Diesel exhaust may be billowy and stinky, but it’s also nontoxic. Not many people know that. I figured he didn’t.”
“How do you know it?” Merilee wondered.
“A French mechanic once told me.”
“What if you’d misunderstood him?”
“I speak perfect French.”
“I know, but—”
“You’re saying you set yourself up?” Root asked, sucking on his gopher teeth.
I nodded, which I immediately regretted. It made something rattle inside my head. “He had to get me out of the way and he couldn’t afford another murder, especially right here at his own home. That would keep things unraveling. So I gave him the perfect opportunity to stage a suicide. He put something in the champagne to knock me out. He didn’t drink any of it himself, of course.”
“Wouldn’t the drug have shown up in your system?” asked Merilee. “I mean, if there’d been an autopsy?”
“Not necessarily, Miss Nash,” said Root. “You’d be amazed at how many disappear quickly, and without a trace. Naturally, he took the bottle with him.” Root turned to me. “He thinks you’re dead.”
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“You really are a stupid ninny,” said Merilee.
I took her hand and squeezed it. “Why, Merilee, that’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever, ever …” My knees buckled.
The Man Who Lived by Night Page 17