by John Harvey
Resnick was looking around the canteen for signs of Diane Woolf. What had begun as interesting had degenerated into a mixture of spleen and self-pity.
“You know what a writer needs to succeed in this business?” Deleval demanded.
Resnick shook his head; it was time he made his excuses and left.
“You know?”
Deleval was almost roaring now and the occupants of all the adjacent tables had dropped their indifference and were openly staring.
“What he needs,” Deleval was on his feet, turned towards the interior of the canteen, “aside from the skin of a rhinoceros and a permanently nodding head, is an extra-long tongue that won’t go brown at the edges.”
He seized the plate from his table and held it close to his face. “What any self-respecting writer has to be able to do …” he was pawing his hand into the pieces of cheesecake and pushing them inside his mouth, shouting through the ensuing spray, “… is eat shit and look as though he’s enjoying it.”
After that, Resnick nearly didn’t notice Diane Woolf at all. She tapped him on the shoulder as he backed past her, standing near the head of the queue balancing a plate of salad, a low-fat banana yoghurt and a black coffee.
“Shall we take this somewhere else?”
“Please.”
He followed her out through the doors and along the broad corridor, up a flight of stairs and into a small room that overlooked a section of the car park. There were several pieces of editing equipment, two television monitors and a double stack of VHS cassettes that Resnick eased back along the table so that Diane could set down her lunch. He assumed it was lunch.
“Here,” she said, pushing the coffee towards him. “It’s black. Is that all right?”
“It’s yours.”
She shook her glorious head of red hair. “I drink too much of the stuff. It’s just easier to buy it and pour it away than walk past the coffee point. Besides, if you drink it, I won’t have to go on murdering the house plants the company so thoughtfully provides.”
Resnick was staring at her.
“Well, what they don’t provide are receptacles for unwanted coffee.”
That wasn’t why he was looking at her. She knew it. Delicately between forefinger and thumb, she lifted some alfalfa sprouts towards her mouth. She had one of her long legs crossed over the other, the white dungarees that she was wearing were loose across the hips, less so where the bib was strapped over a satiny blouse, electric blue.
“I take it Robert was having another of his little fits.”
“It’s happened before?”
“Like clockwork. Robert’s more pre-menstrual than me and any dozen of my friends put together. He just doesn’t bleed, that’s all.”
“Not like Mackenzie.”
“Ah, so this isn’t merely a social call.”
Wishing that it were, Resnick shook his head. “Did you see what happened? Clearly, I mean.”
“Ringside seat.”
“And was there provocation?”
“When the wind’s in the right direction, Mac could provoke the Buddha into going ten rounds.”
“How was the wind on this occasion?”
“North-north-westerly.”
“Force nine?”
“All cones hoisted.”
“He asked for it, then?”
“Doesn’t he always?”
“You’d make a statement to that effect? If it came to it.”
Diane made a little moue with her mouth. “There’s my salary to think of. And expensive shoe obsession to support.” Today they were white Nikes with a yellow stripe; perhaps she kept the rest under glass, lock and key.
“It probably won’t come to that.”
“You won’t charge him?”
“It’s a little early to say, but …”
“That isn’t the point of it, you know.”
Resnick lifted the coffee mug but didn’t drink any. “What is?”
“Mac wants him out.”
“Of the job?”
“The job, the building, everything.”
“Didn’t he hire him?”
“Hire ’em and fire ’em, that’s the name of the game. Harold’s been at it long enough to know the risks. They’ll pay him what he’s due, slip him a few promises to keep him sweet. His name stays on the credits, he won’t lose his residuals.”
“His what?”
“Oh, repeats, overseas sales. They’ll love this in Australia.”
Resnick, in his mind, was loving her mouth, the lower lip that looked as if it were just slightly swollen.
She ate a piece of celery, taking her time about it. “Do you always ogle your witnesses?”
Resnick almost fell for saying something sticky and smart like, only when they look like you. Thankfully, he didn’t. He had the grace to blush a little instead.
“You want some of this?” she asked, sliding the plate towards him.
Resnick shook his head.
“You should.” She smiled. “You really should think about your carbohydrates.”
Before Resnick could suck in his stomach and straighten his back they were interrupted by a loud shouting from outside.
At the end of the short corridor, Harold Roy had Mackenzie backed up against a door and was threatening to deafen him with accusations. The most frequent amongst those seemed to concern what was going on at the other side of the door.
“If I’ve got it wrong,” screamed Harold, “get the fuck out of my way and let me see what’s going on in there.”
“What’s been done in there is none of your business, Harold.”
“Like hell it isn’t!”
“Harold …”
“Out of the way, you chicken shit …”
“Harold …”
Harold caught Mackenzie by the forearm and managed to swing him far enough aside to make a grab at the door handle possible. It budged, but not by more than an inch.
“It’s locked.”
“Of course it’s locked. With you running amok, what d’you expect? You shouldn’t even be in the building.”
“You shouldn’t be producing the God-slot for five-year-olds.”
“Harold, now you’re being petty and vindictive.”
“When it comes to being vindictive …”
“I know, I know,” said Mackenzie, showing every sign of becoming bored, “I wrote the book.”
“No, Mac,” said Harold Roy, “you stole the book.”
“Up yours, Harold!”
It might have petered out there, just another slagging match between middle-aged prima donnas with nothing better to do on their lunch break, if Freeman Davis hadn’t chosen that moment to unlock the door from the inside and poke his head out to see what all the commotion was about.
Harold barged past the younger man almost as if he weren’t there. Only seconds later he was back in the corridor and bearing down on the producer.
“Couldn’t wait, could you, Mac? Couldn’t wait to let this jumped-up fuck-up start re-editing my footage. Cutting the fucking stuff to bits!”
If Resnick hadn’t stepped in quickly, Harold Roy’s fist might have done more damage this time than last. All those early years directing angry young men were coming home to roost.
“Uh-uh, Harold,” Resnick said, the fingers of his right hand tight around the director’s wrist, his left closed around Harold’s best punch, “not a good idea in the circumstances. This time the provocation might be harder to prove.”
“Let him go,” said Mackenzie, but without a great deal of conviction. “He won’t catch me twice and get away with it.”
Resnick stared into Harold Roy’s face until the latter looked away and the tension had seeped from his arm. “We have to talk, Harold and I,” Resnick said to Mackenzie. “If you could make somewhere available.”
“Sure,” Mackenzie said, backing off. “Of course. You want anything? Anything else?”
Resnick shook his head. Down along the corridor, Diane was l
eaning against the wall, finishing her salad with her fingers. There was a smile in her eyes, brightening the corners of her mouth. How could she stand there dressed like a house painter, thought Resnick, and be so sexy?
For herself, Diane Woolf was still thinking how quickly for a big man Resnick had moved, how fast. Maybe there was something about him after all; something more than those eyes that didn’t want to let her go.
Twenty-six
Harold Roy clenched his fists and stared at his knuckles until they were quite white. If ever there’d been any chance of salvaging his future with this particular company, the last half-hour had blown it. Once the rumors made their rounds, the usual vindictiveness, more than usual exaggeration-couldn’t finish the series, couldn’t keep to schedule, boozed up on the set, taking swings at the producer-he’d be lucky to get a job directing sixty-second promos for satellite TV. Some men in his situation might have somewhere warm and comforting to crawl; someone to hold their hands and pour their vodka, lick their wounds. What he had was a shrew of a wife who was in the process of rediscovering her sexuality in the company of a professional criminal with a semi-permanent hard-on. What he had was a blade-wielding drug dealer who would joyfully slice him down the middle at the first hint of betrayal.
Harold Roy was forty-nine years old and life could have been better. He felt around in his pockets, coming up with a used tissue and spirals of green-and-silver paper.
“Damn!”
“What’s up?” Resnick asked.
“I’m out of mints.”
“Let’s talk about it,” Resnick said, leaning forward, elbows on to the table, arms loosely folded.
Harold pulled at his tie, the idea being to free the knot, but all that happened was he tightened it instead. He looked more in need of a couple of valium than extra-strong peppermint.
Jesus, thought Harold, that’s it. Why don’t I do it? Why don’t I say I’m going to the toilet, lock the cubicle door and hang my stupid self? Why don’t I?
“How about it?” said Resnick.
“What?”
“Telling me what you know.”
Harold’s shoulders slumped, a loud breath slid from his open mouth. There was something forbiddingly final about this man opposite him; the way he sat there, engaging him with his eyes, a big man, solid, something about him that said, it’s all right, Harold. I know everything, know it all. All I want is for you to tell it back to me. Confess. Think how much better you’ll feel once it’s over-as if saying it lifted that weight from your back.
For a moment, Harold Roy could smell the sweetness of the incense, see the swing of the thurible. The shaded profile at the other side of the confessional, never clearly in focus.
Resnick hadn’t moved, didn’t move; enough to watch and wait.
“About all that,” Harold began, the words tumbling out. “Out there just now, that and the other day, all that stuff with Mackenzie, the time I, time I hit him, that’s it, that’s what you want me to talk about. It is, all right? That’s …”
Resnick carefully levered himself back on the chair. A muffled message sounded over the Tannoy. Sweat, only a little of it, slipped along Harold Roy’s forehead, around his eyebrow and on to the side of his nose. Harold picked the crumpled tissue from the desk and dabbed it away. There would be more.
“That’s not it?”
Resnick shook his head.
“Not what you want to talk about?”
“No, Harold.”
“Oh Christ.” His head went down into his hands, as though that was one last way of escaping. Pull the blankets up over your head and the frightening things will all go away. The pulse at his wrist was so fast he could feel it all along his arm.
“The burglary,” Resnick said evenly. “Why don’t you start there? Then, in your own time, you can get to the rest.”
“Okay,” said Harold, almost thankfully. “All right, I’ll start there.”
When the phone first went, Maria was in the shower and didn’t hear it until the tone was almost an afterthought; the second occasion, she was stretched out on the settee, midway through an article in Good Housekeeping about watching your weight while still being able to indulge in those little lip-smacking secrets. She should say! By the time she’d finished the sentence, got her feet inside her slippers, it had stopped. Ten rings: who the hell hung up after ten rings? Surely not Grabianski. He had a little more staying power than that.
Disgusting, all those bottles sitting there, waiting to be opened. Her hand shook at the wrong moment and gin ran over the rim of the glass down on to the front of her robe, her hand, the floor.
“God, Maria! You’re becoming a sloppy drunk.”
She knew that what she should do was call a cab and go into the city, see a movie. There had to be something decent on, something with a taste of good old-fashioned adultery; Kirk Douglas leaving his architectural plans on the table to go pussy-footing after Kim Novak, forever dropping off her kid at the school bus-stop in a backless red dress and no bra. What was the name of that film?
Harold would know. She’d have to remember to ask Harold. One thing he was good for, any movie between, oh, ’32 or ’33 and the end of the sixties. Harold could tell you who starred, directed, the name of the studio, date, sometimes even the cinematographer. The only thing he wasn’t so hot on, the writer. Even so, pretty impressive. The kind of mind Trivial Pursuit was made for. Just so long as everything stopped with Easy Rider. The pre-baby-boom period.
Pretty trivial, that was Harold. She dipped the tip of her tongue into the glass. That way it could last her as long as an hour, more. No, she was being unfair to the bastard. The way he’d handled bursting in and finding the two of them in the bath. Good as. Jerry jumping out, standing there, holding out … actually holding out his hand. Let’s go outside, we’ve got a lot to talk about. Leaving her there, alone, trying not to wee into the bathwater.
When the phone went again, she half-stumbled, nearly lost her footing. “Where’ve you been? Here I am, sitting around all day, worried sick, waiting for you to call. What’s happening with you?”
“I did call,” Grabianski said. “Twice.”
“That was you?”
“You were there? Why didn’t you answer?”
“I tried.”
“Somebody was there with you?”
“Nobody. I’ve been going crazy all day.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“So you’re going to tell me I can’t drink now?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’ve been drinking, that’s what you said.”
“I only said it, that’s all. Not: look, don’t do it; stay sober. Just a fact, that’s all, you’ve been …”
“I know, I know, I’ve been drinking. What d’you expect me to do? Hanging round here since this morning. You told me you were going to call.”
“I did.”
“That was this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry. I was busy.”
“Planning another burglary?”
Grabianski didn’t reply.
“Is that what you’ve been doing, getting ready to … Jerry, look, don’t, you can’t. I’m worried about you.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s not nice. I wasn’t made to sit at home, worrying.”
“Then don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
Silence again. Maria tried to picture him, imagine what he was doing. Whether he was in a call-box or not. These days, modern phones, you couldn’t tell the difference.
“The police were here,” she said.
“What did they want?” Trying to keep his voice calm, on the same level, and not quite making it.
“They know I lied.”
“How can they?”
“They know, that’s all.”
“No way can they know.”
“He stood there and told me: the statement you made, we know you were lying.”
“That was what
he said? I mean, exactly?”
“We have reason to believe that you falsified your statement on the whatever whatever, in particular as far as the identification of the two men were concerned.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I asked him how he thought he knew that.”
“And?”
“He sort of leered at me.”
“Jesus!”
“Exactly.”
“He didn’t say you had to go to the station, make a fresh statement?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Not at this juncture.”
“He said that? Juncture?”
“It could have been junction.”
“You didn’t go along with this? I mean, you didn’t agree to change what you’d said?”
“Nooo.”
“Which means you did?”
“I said it was possible, looking back on it, I might have made a mistake.”
Grabianski swore.
“Jerry, I only said, might.”
“Yes, yes. This police officer, plainclothes? A detective?”
“Detective constable.”
“From which station?”
“How should I know? We didn’t stand around exchanging addresses.”
“He wasn’t the same one you saw before?”
“Before there was an inspector and two constables. He wasn’t any of those.”
“And you say he didn’t ask you to make a fresh statement?”
“He sort of invited me.”
“You declined?”
“Haven’t I told you?”
“But you did say you might have been wrong?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“What did he say to that? I mean, at the end. How did he leave it?”
“He said, if those clever buggers were black, I’m a baboon’s uncle.”
It wasn’t immediately that Maria realized the connection had been broken. Almost as soon as she did, the phone rang again.
“Did you hang up?”