by M. M. Mayle
He doesn’t see a doorbell button, so he raps on the door. After a half-minute or so the door opens. The short bald reporter, dressed in cutoff pants and a sleeveless undershirt, is recognizable from the many times Grant himself was target of photographers for defying one restraining order or another.
“Jakeway?” Grant says, and without waiting for an answer, signals Hoop to follow along. Grant leads the way through a nice-enough-looking sitting room to the back of the house, where it’s hard to tell where the kitchen ends and the glassed-in porch begins because the whole area is crowded with metal filing cabinets and camera equipment. No pleasantries are exchanged; no hand is offered for shaking and that’s fine. This isn’t a social call, after all.
“Lemme see if I got this right.” Grant digs at his crotch then scratches an armpit. “We go back a coupla years to when you tipped me that the runaway Aurora Elliot was holed up in a hunting cabin somewhere and about to drop her kid.”
Hoop nods and sets down the bucket and tool chest without being asked.
“And that woulda been when I conveniently made my deal with Elliot that went to shit when the bitch got herself killed.”
The crude language and distorted fact give Hoop a twinge that he doesn’t let show on the outside.
“Did I ever know what your interest in all this was?” Grant busies himself at the far end of the porch section, unclipping photographs from a wire strung from kitchen wall to a window frame. He goes at it like he’s taking down wash, except he’s careful not to fold anything.
“Didn’t you have a beef with Elliot or somethin’?” Grant asks, then answers his own question: “Oh yeah, now I remember. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re the one that blamed Elliot for Aurora’s carryings-on and there’s a case where you coulda believed the tabs because the cunt was every bit as bad as claimed—and I oughta know—and you oughta know, because reliable sources tell me she was seriously bad news before she ever left the fuckin’ north woods.”
Grant gathers together the photographs and moves back to the kitchen area. His rubber gook shoes make slapping noises on the clay-tile floor. “Y’know though,” he says, “you shouldn’t be out to get Elliot—the two of ya oughta be best buddies because you’re the only two jerks in the world that ever saw anything good in Aurora—good other than for cadgin’ headlines, I’m sayin’.”
Hoop holds back a grimace and lifts up the tool chest. He makes room for it on a kitchen counter, then moves the paint bucket into full view.
Grant sets the stack of photographs down next to the tool chest where Hoop can’t miss seeing the subject matter. He looks away as fast as he can, but he’s not fast enough; the image is burned onto his eyeballs. He blinks several times like that would do any good and when he looks again it’s out of the corners of his eyes.
The swine that dares call himself a photojournalist, fans the pictures out like a giant deck of filthy playing cards, and indicates with flicking finger and droning voice which of these views of Audrey will bring the most money from porn collectors.
“These’ll be hot again because Colin Elliot’s hot again,” Cliff Grant says as he moves his attention from the wicked display back to Hoop. “Not ten minutes ago I got a call from one of my regulars that Elliot and a bodyguard’ll be checkin’ into the Royal Poinciana within the hour. That tells me he’s attending the Icon show tonight and my bookie tells me he’s odds-on to win, so it appears we’re back in business. Now, let’s see what you’ve got that’s gonna cause Elliot all this major grief you’re hopin’ for.”
Hoop opens the tool chest—just the lid, the drawers he leaves closed—and selects a flathead screwdriver with a broad blade to serve as a pry bar. He’s holding it by the blade when Grant interferes.
“What the fuck? What’s with the tools? And the paint can? When you brought that in I figured you had a job in the neighborhood or somethin’. Are you sayin’ that this evidence you told me about on the phone—this evidence you say’ll make Elliot look like a monster—is somethin’ that has to be carried around in a fuckin’ paint can? Do I really wanna know what this is?”
Grant backs off a ways. Hoop frowns his serious intent and explains what’s inside before he starts prying open the tabs on the lid of the bucket. Grant doesn’t react the way most people would to this news; he doesn’t get all horrified or roll his eyes or throw a hand across his mouth like he’s getting ready to puke. Instead, he laughs. He laughs a laugh without any fun in it that sounds for all the world like the laughs Hoop used to hear when he had to ride a girl’s bike or else depend on shank’s mare.
“Sonuvabitch! This is better than double-jointed cheerleaders from Mars or six-titted two-headed pygmies from the back alleys of Bangkok. And I suppose you’ve got Elvis waitin’ in the car.” Grant bends almost double with his mockery. Then he straightens up and holds his arms out wide like he’s reading from a regulation newspaper. “Severed Head of Rock Star’s Rebel Wife Delivers Damaging Message from Beyond,” he blares in a breathy voice. Then, in a more normal voice, he says how he ought to have his own head examined for messing around with the certifiable lunatic fringe.
Hoop quick tamps down the two tabs he just pried open. He uses the thick handle of the screwdriver and makes sure the paint can is sealed tight before he tamps Cliff Grant right between the eyes and jumps aside so as not to be hit by his falling body.
While he finishes up with Grant, he can’t help be disappointed he never got the chance to point out the petechiae on Audrey’s neck, even though he doesn’t know how to pronounce the word for the little pinprick hemorrhages that result from applied pressure—like from a stranglehold, according to the forensics book he looked at in the backroom of the Bimmerman mortuary when he stole the embalming fluid. And he’s a little sorry the question never got asked about why the evidence was never taken to the cops. There are several answers, but the simplest one, the one he would have used today, has to do with any jackassed-fool knowing journalists don’t have to reveal their sources.
An hour or so later, when everything’s been made right that can be, Hoop sets out from Venice Beach in search of the Royal Poinciana Hotel.
EIGHT
Early afternoon, March 30, 1987
Bemus’s arrangements went without a hitch. They arrived LA in record time—almost before they left Denver, as predicted—and the adjoining rooms they were shown to following an expedited VIP check-in at the Royal Poinciana met with Colin’s approval. He didn’t insist on separate suites for such a short stay, not on Icon night when even Nate’s considerable influence wouldn’t have bought better.
Settled in as he’s going to get, the priority now is to ring home. At eight p.m. GMT, he’s too late to say a proper goodnight to Simon, but Anthony will still be stirring. Colin places the call from a bedside phone, explains where he is without saying why, and promises to provide details next time he phones. After ringing off his eyes remain on the photo wallet propped open beside the telephone. No unbearable amount of guilt sweeps over him, so he dials a local number.
Getting outfitted for the award show is the next order of business. The concierge desk accommodates by sending someone up straightaway with an assortment of eveningwear and accessories from one of the shops in the lobby. He chooses an Armani classic tuxedo and a tailor is summoned who promises minor alterations will be made within the hour. There’s no help for the shoes, though; none of them quite fit and Bemus isn’t available to supply a better selection because he’s gone on another errand. In the end, Colin makes do with the pair of slip-ons that pinch the least and figures to wear the scuffed trainers he arrived in if it comes to that.
The altered clothing arrives an hour later. But Bemus isn’t back yet, and failure starts looking like a possibility—all because he didn’t think about how he’d gain admittance to the Miriam Darling Pavilion of the Los Angeles Music Center. He has neither the nomination document nor the official invitation to the event. Both are in Nate’s possession, and whilst name recognition alone may have
provided last-minute plane tickets and hotel accommodations, he has a bad feeling it might not be enough to get him into the Icon ceremony.
He dresses in the new clothing for something to do and to keep up momentum. Won’t hurt to be ready, he’s telling himself when Bemus bursts in with success written all over his broad face.
“Good thing you’re dressed, traffic’s hell on wheels. I had less trouble gettin’ the credentials than I had tryin’ to get anywhere near the Music Center. C’mon, let’s go. Show starts in less than an hour, and as it is you’ll probably be goin’ in late.”
“Who did you see . . . how?”
“Was easy once I got to the right guy—almost like they were expecting you to show at the last minute.”
Colin picks up loose change, a wad of American currency, and a clean handkerchief from a side table and they leave.
“What did Nate say just before we split up at the airport—when he took you aside?” he asks Bemus as they enter the keyed elevator.
“The usual. To keep you from losin’ the family farm at the craps table and to check in regularly.”
They go out through a side entrance, where he endures the polite stares of hotel staff and guests till they’re in the car and underway. He rides in the passenger seat alongside Bemus, his usual spot in this new era.
“When we get there, drop me off in front. Then you come back to the hotel, watch the thing on telly and when it looks like they’re gettin’ ready to hand out the song award, head back and I’ll find you. This’ll probably be the only non-limo in the lot.”
“It’s all they had.” Bemus refers to the bridal-white Cadillac sedan.
“I’m not moaning about the car. Don’t worry about it—could be to my advantage.”
During final approach to the music center, Colin wants to get out and simply walk to the entrance and it’s the ill-fitting shoes more than Bemus that discourage him from bypassing on foot the steady stream of limousines converging at the drop-off point. He’s without socks and just moving his feet within the confines of the car causes discomfort.
Feet are the only thing on his mind when he finally does exit the car and run the gantlet of fans and television interviewers on the broad plaza. If he limps, stumbles, or exhibits anything resembling confusion, he’ll feed the rumor mill the same sort of false grist it’s been subsiding on for too long.
These thoughts persist whilst an usher shows him to a less-than-prominent seat. A good number of people recognize him and clap him on the shoulder as they go by. Some he knows, some he doesn’t; they all serve as a barometer of faith encouraging him to see this thing through at all costs.
If there are programs listing the order of events, he doesn’t have one; the strangers on either side of him are empty-handed as well so he can’t estimate how long he’ll have to endure before his turn comes.
When it does come, more than two tedious hours later, he’s thoroughly unprepared for what they’ve done to his song. He expected the bogus rendition to be weak—that was a given—but he did not anticipate that the production number would resemble an outtake from a horror movie with ghoulish figures wafting about as a female song stylist—she can’t be called a singer—executes a series of strenuous moves—calisthenics, they are—dressed in nothing but cobwebs apparently held together by bat spit.
If Nate was aware of this and let it proceed without protest, Colin vows to have him killed. Although the song was inserted into the soundtrack of a film even the director agreed had its dark and eerie moments, the song itself was not associated with those moments. Played back as performed by the composer, it’s nothing if not positive and redemptive. So what he sees going on in front of him has to be the work of yet another director; one who—as someone long ago predicted might happen—has only one definition for the term “revenant” in his lexicon.
“Shit!” Colin says loud enough that he’s overheard. Straightaway he feels a couple of pats on his shoulder and, out of the corner of his eye, sees some sympathetic grimacing going on. It’s doubtful they’ll point a television camera into the audience whilst this desecration is still in progress, but he nevertheless limits himself to the one outburst.
The ghostly contortionist and the undead choir eventually finish and the monitors display a commercial break during the striking of the set.
The introduction of former winners as presenters of the award for best new song from a motion picture produces an audience buzz. Colin remains dead still while subjected to reprises of the other four songs and winces only slightly during the repeat of a few bars of his own entry.
Never for a minute has he considered that he might not win. His confidence is unflagging as the cameras omit him from the split screen spotlighting the other nominees, and the female presenter makes a major production of opening the envelope, then drags it out a bit more by cuddling with the co-presenter.
“And . . . the . . . Icon winner . . . is,” she finally says.
“Revenant!” the male presenter announces after another long theatrical pause. To his credit, he does not pronounce it “reverent” or “remnant,” but the orchestra gets no credit when they reprise the winning song with inappropriate undertones of mystery and malevolence.
“Accepting for Colin Elliott . . . is . . . is . . . Colin Elliot!” The momentarily befuddled presenter gets the message from an off-camera stage manager making frantic hand signals and pointing at the audience. The audience reads the signaling as well and is fully ignited once the cameras focus on the winner.
Colin is deliberate about getting to his feet—and not just because they hurt. He cautiously steps into the aisle and makes sure the cameras are still with him when he starts for the stage. Huggers and back-clappers stop him several times; some are a bit teary-eyed, as he could readily become. He ascends to the stage with sure, confident steps, pausing at the podium just long enough to snatch a hand mike from one of the presenters. From there he proceeds to the lip of the orchestra pit and cues the startled music director, whom he knows well.
“Hey, Julius, let’s show ‘em how it’s really supposed to go—key of B-flat—on three.” He stamps out the count, the maestro’s keyboard quickly joins in with the orchestra in full agreement as Colin takes center stage to perform a chorus of “Revenant” the way it was meant to be—as a hymn to hope instead of a dirge for the dark side. He knows to the tenth of a second how long the chorus takes—about the same length of time an over-garrulous Icon winner spends thanking everyone but his or her pet goat.
At the end of the musical interlude he’s approaching the red zone, so he can’t wait for pin-drop silence from the now wildly applauding and cheering audience that’s come to its feet.
“I think that should about do it, then. As you’ve just seen and heard, the song really is a winner . . . and I am still able to perform. Thank you and goodnight.” He returns to the podium, takes the Icon statuette from the still stunned presenter, and lofts it like a torch as one of the girl guides escorts him from the stage.
Audience roar sustains him all the way and would buoy him even further if he thought the majority really understood what he had just done. He is not faintly sorry if he’s stepped hard on a few toes, he just hopes they’re the right ones.
His own toes are giving him serious grief as his escort explains how and when he can resume his seat in the auditorium.
“No, I’ll be leaving now if you’ll just point me towards the nearest exit.”
She gestures in the general direction of a large open area teeming with media reps and is gone before he can ask for a less populated route. He warily eyes the members of the media, all of whom seem to be brandishing cameras, tape recorders, long-handled mikes, and feral expressions. The only exit he sees is on the other side of their midst, so there’s nothing for it but plunge ahead.
“No comment at this time,” he says to the barrage of shouted queries, pastes on a professional frown, and attempts to deafen himself to further demands. But the gist of the questioning ge
ts through, centering on if and when he’s ever going to talk about where he’s been and what he’s been doing for the past twenty-eight months.
He slows down and scans the multitude for a notoriously familiar face, the first time in all those months that he’s given conscious thought to the nemesis reporter whose skein of tips led to Northern Michigan and a supposed date with destiny. Where is Cliff Grant? Where is the bloody bastard, lost to memory since the bargain was struck that produced Aurora’s whereabouts? Did Grant ever make claim against that bargain? Might he be about to leap out of the woodwork and do it now?
Colin ducks his head, speeds the final ten feet to the door, and couldn’t be happier about finding himself surrounded by rent-a-cops when he exits to the plaza beyond. For them, he doesn’t have to pretend. He removes the miserable shoes, flings them aside and sprints for the front of the building with a sharp eye out for Bemus and the white Cadillac. Two of the cops chase after him, shouting that he’s forgetting his shoes. Then, for keeping him company till Bemus comes into view, he autographs the shoes for them and invites each to fingerprint the Icon statuette.
“Barefoot? You sparkin’ a new trend?” Bemus says when he jumps into the front seat.
“My bleedin’ feet hurt, that’s all,” Colin says and instructs Bemus to return to the hotel, gather up their gear, check out, and book seats on the next flight to New York. “Same as when we left Denver. I’ll wait in the car and I won’t hold out for first class. Oh, but I am gonna insist on stayin’ at The Plaza when we get to New York.”