The Suspense Is Killing Me

by Thomas Gifford

  The Suspense Is Killing Me

  Thomas Maxwell

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  For Rachel and Tom

  Ah, for the days

  That set our hearts ablaze.

  —Rimbaud

  My god, how the time slips away.

  —JC Tripper

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Greetings…

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Author’s Note

  ANY WRITER OF FICTION IS bound to be asked the sources of his characters. Are they real? Are they composites of people he has known? Are they entirely fictional? And if so, how is that possible? Writers spend a certain amount of time wriggling away from being too specific, frequently because they can’t really pin down a character’s birth.

  But not always.

  A character I find particularly interesting and appealing in this novel, Annie DeWinter, doesn’t appear until fairly late in the proceedings. She is, however, a pivotal character. You don’t have to ask me about her because I’m taking this opportunity to tell you from whence she came.

  I found her in Greenwich Village, working in a bookstore about three blocks from where I live. Initially I noticed, as chaps will, that she was strikingly—indeed, almost alarmingly—beautiful. Tall, slender, square-shouldered, her skin very pale, her hair dramatically black. In time I noticed her earrings. They were new ones on me and they were perfect for Annie DeWinter. She was perfect for Annie DeWinter. Her name was Michelle.

  Annie was a blank until then. And then she took over Michelle’s body. I asked her for the use of her earrings and she told me how she’d come to get them—also incorporated into the story, at least in outline. Annie became Michelle. And that is how this writer found a crucial character.

  Needless to say, Annie’s personality is entirely her own; her experiences and her generation and her life have nothing whatever to do with Michelle. But she wouldn’t be Annie if I hadn’t met Michelle. So, my thanks to Michelle a thousand times over.

  This writing gig. Nothing to it.

  —Thomas Maxwell

  New York City

  February 1990

  Greetings …

  I’VE JUST COME BACK FROM visiting my attorney and my banker. I tell them I see them on Visiting Day, not because they are actually in prison but—let’s face it—they might very well be, only a couple more deals down the road. Morris and Harold, to give them names, find me something of a joker, but that’s not to be confused with thinking I’m funny. They seldom smile when I’m around, and even if they had once, they wouldn’t have been smiling much today. They were wearing what you might call their openmouthed, dying-fish looks when I got through with them. I signed a hand-written statement while they looked on and then we made use of a safe-deposit box. Harold Berger looked as if he might be doing something criminal without quite being sure. I was indeed the only one doing any laughing. I handed my key to the box to Morris Dicker. He frowned. It was the look of a man who has just been videotaped accepting the Baggie bulging with cocaine. “Everything be fine,” I said, “everything be cool. Ax me no questions, relax, my man.”

  Morris looked at Harold. Harold looked at me and said, “I hate you, Lee.”

  Morris nodded. “You’re an absolute charlie, Lee. There’s no other word for it. For you, I mean.”

  “Don’t give me that crapola,” I explained. Then I smilingly outlined his place in the great scheme of things. I told him about the lawyer who fell into the school of feeding sharks but went untouched, climbed back into the boat, and said to his astonished companions, “Professional courtesy.” It is not uncommon for lawyers to forget their place in the g. s. and then they must be reminded. Ditto for investment bankers who are frequently too young to have learned their place. Harold was not an investment banker. He was just a banker banker.

  The hell with all this. It’s always a mistake for me to get started on lawyers and bankers. Morris and Harold are okay guys. Slow but okay. And I’ve never actually caught either of them molesting a child.

  I felt better having taken care of business because I’m trying to save myself a lot of heartache and grief and unnecessary confusion later on when the shit hits the f. I’m not sure anything’s going to happen, mind you, but it might, and better safe than sorry. Pay attention to Granny’s samplers and you can never go far wrong. That’s my advice. A fool and his money are soon parted, too.

  Now you’d better sort of brace yourself for this story because, let me be absolutely frank with you, it’s full to the brim with deceit and treachery and violence and the occasional laugh to break the tension, and plain, outright, bald-faced lies. I’m going to tell it as it happened, lies and all, and good luck to you. Don’t trust a goddamn thing anybody says and never return by the way you came.

  My name is Lee Tripper.

  And I wouldn’t lie to you.

  Unless I absolutely had to.

  Prologue

  THE PACKAGE ARRIVED BY UPS. It was signed for and delivered up to my condominium by one of the smartly attired doormen whose cheery, helpful disposition indicated he knew on which side his croissants were buttered. He all but saluted once he’d handed it over and adroitly stepped away when I reached into my pocket for a tip. “Part of the job, Mr. Tripper,” he said, as he almost always did. He knew the payoff was in the end much larger when he hadn’t nickeled-and-dimed everybody to death all year.

  I took it to the terrace, where the afternoon shadows had cooled off one of the summer’s first hot days. The breeze rustling the trees in Central Park below felt good and clean and pure. Summer hadn’t yet beaten Manhattan to its grubby knees.

  The return address meant nothing to me. A street somewhere in Seattle, the initials ABM. I slit the twine and tape with the old Swiss Army knife I used for a letter opener and peeled the wrapping paper away, then unfolded the top of a cardboard box somewhat larger than a shoe box.

  It contained a letter, an old envelope marked HARRIGAN’S DELUXE PHOTO FINISHING, and a largish, heavy oilskin package with several thick rubber bands tightly enclosing it. The letter was short. It was signed by someone I’d never met.

  Dear Mr. Tripper,

  My father, Martin Bjorklund, with whom you were once acquainted, died recently. Among his possessions we found the contents of this box with the instructions that upon his death it all be sent to you. I have no idea what either item is but be assured they have not been opened and are exactly as Father left them. Perhaps they are keepsakes with some particular significance to the two of you.

  Sincerely,

  Anita Bjorklund Montgomery

  For God’s sake … Marty Bjorklund. I hadn’t seen him in twenty years, not since that last meeting in Tangier.

  I opened the envelope first.

  There were four cracked photographs, each of the same subject. They were Polaroid shots. Harrigan had had no
thing to do with them beyond providing an envelope of the right size. They were pictures of a dead man.

  I tried unwrapping the rubber bands but they were old and brittle and snapped at my touch. Some of the strands of rubber were embedded in the oilskin, which was itself cracked, dried out. Slowly I unfolded the flaps, it slowly dawning on me what I’d find. When the oilskin was entirely pried away, the heavy oily thing, so redolent of what it was, lay on the table before me.

  A Mauser Parabellum nine-millimeter automatic. The four-inch barrel gave it a slender elegance. It was built on the Swiss Luger model.

  Pictures and a gun.

  It looked like the evidence in a murder case …

  One

  THIS STORY GETS SO HAIRY so fast I vote for a nice calm beginning, saxophones and some strings and your overall Nelson Riddle arrangement. Because soon enough we get to the Death’s Head Rangers and the Traveling Executioner’s Band and there’ll be times when all you can do is put your hands over your ears and wait for it to be over. So, nice and easy does it every time. Incidentally, did you know that the publisher of this tale is giving a very large reward for the longest list of song titles any reader finds embedded in the text? Cheggidout.

  The first time you meet me—well, let’s begin with the day I found my first corpse. That put a real crimp in my general state of mind, which was too bad because I’d started the day without a care to my name. It had been a long time since I’d felt so good about things. In fact, now I think about it, I’d never felt so good about things, not once in my entire life, and that was saying something because I’m known for my sunny dispozish. Naturally it couldn’t last, this feeling of well-being. No sane person would expect it to. But a corpse? How often does a corpse louse up your momentary euphoric glimpse of true, unencumbered contentment? Not very damned often, would be my guess.

  I was lingering over my coffee and the morning’s papers, sitting on the spacious terrace of my recently acquired home, a condo in a gravely imposing temple to money and the vague New Yorky status that goes with it. Central Park West. Looking out across the topless towers of Ilium or something, looking down on the lakes and meadows of the Park, the Delacorte Theater, Tavern on the Green, all baking under the summer sun. The Metropolitan Museum and the cliffs of Fifth Avenue across the Park. Mia and all the kids lived not far away and Woody was over on the other side cutting his new movie and I could practically hear the Gershwin from Manhattan. Actually I could hear the music from Manhattan because it was playing on the stereo while I breakfasted and enjoyed the view. This, you may already have predicted, was too good to last; but I hadn’t, I admit, seen the inevitability of disaster. I was a silly fellow who thought he’d at last achieved what he’d always deserved. Well, I was just about to, as it turned out.

  The striped, fringed awning over the French doors flapped as it caught the morning breeze. My potted palms stood swaying like languid, leftover guests who couldn’t bear the idea of going home. I felt so robust and healthy and happy I was within a hair’s breadth of bellowing and whacking my chest. I had my reasons.

  My heavy doping days were behind me. I never thought about all that anymore. If you, gentle reader, peruse these pp. in hope of zeroing in on lurid dramatic reconstructions, you are out of luck. As Katharine Hepburn once said to me and my brother JC on another occasion, “You are barking up a tree you can’t climb.” No recollections of druggy days. Well, maybe the odd reminiscence of my famous brother’s exploits is inevitable, but none of mine. Or damn little of mine, anyway.

  This happy, Mary Poppins-like state of mind was of recent origin. Let me tell you how I’d lost touch with reality and found myself in such a good mood.

  A couple of years before, I was scraping along as a sort of ragtag journalist, trying to live off my late brother’s reputation and having fairly hard going of it. I was treated in some quarters as a kind of fourth-rate Rock Icon, having you know like been there and all with JC himself—which is just the way these nitwits talk. I was caught between a James Dean Rock Fantasy and the Nostalgia Wave. I was a man with a sketchy-looking future at best and a very messy Rock Generation Gone Sour past, and forgive the capitalizations, but that’s the way the poor jerks who think about those days like their prose. It was all incredibly humbling, having been on top of the pile, no matter if it had been a pretty rubbishy pile. As I sank lower and lower in the pecking order of Post-Modern Rock personages, I didn’t complain: I had my reasons for preferring anonymity. And the truth was, those had been the days, hadn’t they? At least some of them.

  Anyway, I’d kicked around Europe and a few other less well-known and certainly less promising continents for more than a decade, lying doggo, like a lost ball in the high weeds, as Robert Ryan says to Dean Jagger in Bad Day at Black Rock. I had a lot of time for movies and books and staring into space, mistakenly looking for my soul because I was trying to recover from the rock days, all those weird rock dreams everybody always used to talk about so long ago. I was getting older, my hair was flecking with gray and I was losing a lot of it. I got used to my face without a beard and it got a good bit fuller. I raised a perfectly respectable crop of jowls. People I’d known for years would see me on the street in Paris or Brisbane or Asunción—that was when I picked up a fair piece of change acting as the radio man on a team trying to locate Martin Bormann but that is most definitely another story—and brush past, not a clue as to who I was. I lived in Paris for a time, did some hiking in the Dordogne and in Tuscany, even went through a misguided attempt at fitness training involving jogging in the Bois de Boulogne. I ran afoul of unpleasant, uncouth scoundrels during what I think of as the Christ of the Andes Blunder. But mainly I let the years pass me by. I watched the river of Time wash away the old days, wash away many of my sins, wash away JC Tripper and his Traveling Executioner’s Band and the huge electric-chair gizmo and JC’s endless girlfriends—they had ends, to be sure, but there were a lot of them, is what I meant to say there—and yes, wash away even the chap who had spent all those years being the brother at JC’s side—me. I enjoyed being washed away. All the memories became blurred; the memory of the person I’d been was one of those memories, and it fared no better than all the others. I was like a snapshot left in the sun on a window ledge, growing dimmer and dimmer as the time passed. Fine. It was better that way and, believe me, no great loss. And eventually it was time to come home.

  When I finally got back from the great out-of-touch-ness called abroad, I ran across a woman called Sally Feinman, who was a magazine writer. Once she realized who I was she behaved as if she’d struck the mother lode. After a month of heavy talking on her part and a fair amount of heavy breathing on mine, she wrote her famous piece for New York magazine, “The Traveling Executioner’s Last Trip.”

  Sally was the rare sort of person who felt no need to keep all the good things for herself. When the publishers Hawthorne & Hedrick approached her about doing a book on the final days of JC Tripper, she demurred, insisting to them that I was the man they wanted.

  An editor by the name of Tony Fleming gave me a call and set things in motion, primarily by waving a contract and an advance of $50,000 at me. Not princely, perhaps, but I liked the cut of his jib and the fact that there would be no wait for the first twenty-five grand. The check was in hand. And all reasonable expenses. If I would tell the true story of JC’s death in Tangier all those years ago. Well, there was the money and I’d been there, an eyewitness. More or less. Unconscious during many of the crucial events, perhaps, but there was no point in going into all that trivia with hopeful, generous Tony. His confidence might reasonably have been expected to flag and I wanted none of that.

  The thing was, my brother had surely died back there in Tangier, but you know how it is with the icons of rock and roll. He died of a drug overdose and a liver that had drowned in bourbon and cataclysmic bouts of depression—or “black dog,” as he called it, after Churchill. He also died of excessive adulation, unceasing sexual hysteria, and worrying too much
about all of it. He just ceased to exist, only the idea of him remained, and in the end it wasn’t such a hot idea, if you ask me. He died after running through the better part of thirty or forty million bucks. He died of a bloated, infected ego, like a punchy old fighter who thinks he’s got another title shot coming.

  These guys like JC and Jim Morrison and Joplin and the biggest tuna of them all, Elvis, the thing is nobody wants them to be really and truly dead. Truly gone, never to come twanging and throbbing and gyrating and sweating and screaming back into the spotlight. Dead, these guys become the death of youth and hope, the death of whatever they have become in the tiny, unformed, adolescent and utterly hormone-drowned minds of their fans. God damn it, they were supposed to be immortal … when in fact most of them were self-destructive, self-indulgent assholes who bit the big weenie just about on schedule. At least some of them.

  The rumors of JC Tripper’s survival, the faked death in a remote part of the world where officialdom was thought to be open to persuasion, his subsequent disappearance into the landscape, a victim of pressure and whatnot … Was any of that true? Or was he dead? There were all these people sitting around The Four Seasons or Mortimer’s or Area in its fleeting day who reflexively gave a knowing wink at the mention of JC’s name. Everybody knew there was a book in it somewhere. Tony Fleming was paying me to write it.

  I did what any man in my pozish would have done. I took the money. And I traipsed hither and yon on my expense account, from Tangier to the old Moon Club in Zurich, this way, and that, checking things out in my old diaries, trying to do the job, or at least trying to look like I was doing the job. I told Fleming that I’d replayed the final frenzied years of JC’s life and that, yes, beyond a reasonable doubt, my brother was dead just as I’d told him, his ashes scattered over the Moroccan desert at least a thousand years ago.