G'Day USA

by Tony McFadden

  ‘I was on my way in and heard the call. Seemed like something I should check out.’

  ‘You really want these glasses dusted?’

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘You’ve got a vested interest in this.’

  ‘I do. I suppose we should tell her.’

  ‘Make sure it’s him first.’

  Sampson nodded. ‘By-the-book Perkins. Okay. I’ll do it your way.’ A gurney with the remains rolled down the hall past the kitchen. ‘Looks like we can head back in there.’

  The tub was emptied and the gun sat on the bottom in a shallow pool of water. Perkins lifted it out using a pencil in the trigger-guard. A tech held open a plastic bag.

  ‘Damn, this is a cute piece of iron.’ He hefted it a bit. ‘Though I doubt there’s much iron in it. Can’t be more than 10 or 12 ounces. Ruger lady gun. Not like something this guy would own.’

  ‘At the range he was from himself a .22 would have done the job.’

  Perkins nodded. ‘Find a note?’

  ‘Less than twenty percent - ’

  ‘Yeah, I know the drill. No note is not an indicator of no suicide. Seems pretty clear.’ He dropped the gun into the waiting evidence bag.

  The tech hefted the bag. ‘Looks to be the same calibre as the hole in his head. Lines up, roughly for a shot in the right temple if he was sitting in that end of the tub. Ballistics will confirm it in a day or so if there’s anything left of the slug. And there’s a very legible serial number on this piece so ownership shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Find the casing,’ asked Sampson.

  ‘It was in the tub. Under the body.’

  ‘How did it get under?’

  ‘Brass doesn’t float, fat, gassy bodies do. Look, gents, we’ve got everything we need here. I’m not the final authority, but I’d call it a suicide.’

  ‘Tape the door. Were out of here too.’ Perkins followed the detective out of the house into a phalanx of media.

  ‘Is it true Bart Sweeney was involved in a shooting?’ ‘Can you tell us who shot who?’ ‘Will you be making an arrest?’ ‘Do you think this may have something to do with his acquittal based on tainted evidence?’

  ‘People, back up, please. My name is Detective Jacob Sampson. I can’t tell you much right now. We just got here. I wonder how you all knew to get here so fast. I’m still amazed at the network you guys have. You should use it for good once in a while.’

  He took a breath. ‘So where to start? Yes, this is the residence of Bart Sweeney. Yes there was a shooting in this residence. No, it doesn’t appear to be a homicide. No, we haven’t positively identified the body, but if it’s Sweeney then his prints are obviously on file and we’ll know shortly.’

  ‘Excuse me, detective, what do you mean there was a shooting but not a homicide? Did he commit suicide?’

  Perkins shook his head. ‘Sergeant Larry Perkins. P-e-r-k-i-n-s. It’s too soon to make any definitive statements at this time. The cause of death is not 100% confirmed. The identity of the body is not 100% confirmed. Making unfounded speculative statements at this time would be reckless. We’ll have a statement for the media by the end of the day with any additional information we may have at that time.’

  ‘Detective, or Sergeant, whoever will answer me, did Bart Sweeney receive any death threats since his release?’

  ‘Can’t comment any further than we already have. Listen, people, I’m surprised at the interest. This guy was, on his best day, a D-grade director. He’s been released on a flawed technicality and apparently felt remorse. I don’t get it. Is there no other news in LA today?’

  Sampson looked over the crowd of faces. A year ago he was running the dog squad in Boise. In his past life he would talk to maybe one reporter a year. The media blitzkrieg he experienced in Los Angeles was one thing he couldn’t get used to.

  He leaned in and spoke quietly to Perkins. ‘We’re staying here until these jackals leave. Wouldn’t put it past them to break in and take pictures of the inside. They’re as bad as the paparazzi.’

  ‘The threat angle is a valid one.’

  Sampson shook his head. ‘He didn’t report any. At least none I’m aware of. You know this guy; he’d be crying like a baby if anyone so much as looked at him the wrong way.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Head back. I’ll wait here for a bit longer and make sure none of the parasites come back. Like every other case, we investigate until it’s verified by the evidence and autopsy to be a suicide.’

  Perkins looked up the drive at the guesthouse. ‘I was in a similar situation a year and a half or so ago. Strangely similar. Bathtub involved then too. Turned out I assumed wrong. It looks like suicide. No argument there. But we need to make sure the same mistakes aren’t made.’

  Sampson followed his gaze to the guesthouse. ‘You’ve got memory loss problems, Perkins. I swear. It was my brother in that tub. That’s what brought me out to LA.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. The same mistakes won’t be made.’

  Chapter Seven

  The butterflies in my stomach were as bad as the first day I ever stepped on stage.

  But it felt great.

  It was a feeling I wanted to have again and again, as nerve-wracking as it was. Like grabbing a wave and hanging on the edge. A thrill, but never sure how it would end.

  My phone warbled a Kylie song. It was the alarm. Time to go. Final dress fitting, then a marathon hair and makeup session, after which I was untouchable until the night was complete.

  I took the elevator down to the parking garage. My almost brand new VW Beetle sat behind the old-school Beetle I’d owned since I moved to LA. I was restoring it, slowly, to pristine condition. Almost pristine. The bullet hole in the back, just above the engine compartment, that was going to stay. A reminder to myself I could make it through anything. I took a cleansing breath and got in the new car. Sweeney couldn’t get rid of me then, and I vowed to not let his release from jail affect me now. ‘He has no control over me. He has no control over me. Damn. If I keep repeating myself, he does have control over me.’

  I backed out of the spot as one of my favorite songs came on. “Till I Met Your Sister”, by Nathan Bishop. Brilliant. I smiled. Things were looking up. The mess with the paps had almost receded from my memory. It was good to have a short-term memory problem.

  The song ended and the station started a news break. I reached to change the station but was stopped by the first words:

  “Bart Sweeney, schlock horror movie director and recently acquitted of murder charges was found dead in his Northridge home this morning by a food delivery person. Suicide is suspected, though investigations are ongoing. Sweeney was recently on trial for the aggravated manslaughter of young, up and coming comic Joel Sampson. Recent revelations by his defense team that some of the evidence against him may have been fabricated by a former lover has resulted in his case being thrown out. He’d been out of jail for less than forty-eight hours when his body was found. It’s believed he killed himself the night before his discovery.”

  I turned off the radio. Former lover? Over his dead body. Well, actually, not even then. Dead? Suicide?

  What a bizarre feeling. He was maligning me after his death, but he was dead. Gone. Never to bother me again. I certainly didn’t need to worry about him crossing paths with him. But “former lover”?

  I thumbed the voice activation button on my steering wheel. ‘Call Marty.’

  ‘Dialing’

  Half way through the first ring he answered with: ‘I just heard. How do you feel?’

  ‘Strange. Shouldn’t feel happy about this, but it’s about time.’

  ‘Strange he killed himself just after he finally got out.’

  ‘Either the guilt got to him, or one of the many people he’s pissed off in his past got to him. Does it really matter? I’m rid of that ass. Finally.’

  ‘Didn’t realize he had that kind of enemy.’

  ‘Oh, trust me. He could bring the worse out in people. Take it from one who k
nows all too well.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s behind you now. Look forward. New challenges and rewards and all that stuff.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m getting freaky excited about tonight.’

  ‘As well you should. Golden Globe performance. No bullshit. I’m looking forward to seeing the final product up on the screen.’

  ‘I am too, but I’ve done this before a couple of times. Why am I freaking out?’

  ‘Probably because this movie cost more to make than all of the others combined. All of them. And, if I can brag, the money you’re making for this movie - and you’ll be making it as long as DVDs are sold - completely dwarfs the money you’ve made in the past.’

  I smiled. ‘Yeah, you’re a fantastic negotiator. As you should be since you get 15%.’

  ‘There is that. What are you up to?’

  ‘Final dress fitting. After which I’m not allowed to even look at food until tonight is over. Then hair and makeup, back home to change and you pick me up in a not ostentatious limo - Marty, it better not be a pink Hummer - and we go off to the night of my life.’

  ‘It will certainly be the highlight of your life so far. And after this you will be on fire. Everyone will be talking about you. Then you’ll make more money than you know how to spend and I’ll be following you around, feeding off your 15%.’

  ‘If it’s too much we can reduce it. Half, say?’

  ‘No, no. That’s okay. Have fun this afternoon. Just make sure the whole package is ready by 3:30. And it will be a classy limo. Don’t worry.’

  I laughed and disconnected the call.

  Still felt weird. Sweeney was dead. The cloud which had creeped in on me - emphasis on the word creep - had suddenly dissipated. Which was good. I smiled again. It was behind me. A chapter of my life was closed with a finality only brought by a coffin.

  He never struck me as suicidal though. Too arrogant for that. At least he was the last time I talked to him. Must have had a personality transplant in jail.

  Happier thoughts. A dress was waiting for me. A beautiful open backed red thing. I’m not much of a girly-girl. I grew up around surfers at North Narrabeen. Fought off a lot of them. I was most comfortable in a pair of jeans and t-shirt. Make-up was something I only wore on set. And this was the longest my hair had even been.

  Today that all changed for me. At least for today. The red Gucci dress was form fitting. I’d be going commando tonight. I smirked at what Marty would think if he knew. I was convinced the dress was ready last week when we had what I thought was the final fitting, but apparently the few ounces I might have added or removed from my frame since then were critical. The lunch I just had could be last food I was allowed to have until the premiere was over.

  I pulled into the parking lot, turned off the engine and sat back and took a breath. Only six hours to go.

  Forty-five minutes later and I was putting a dress box with the nicest piece of girl-clothes I’d ever owned in the back of my little car. I punched the button on my steering wheel. ‘Call Cathy’.

  It rang through to voicemail. ‘Sorry. Can’t take your call. Hit me after the beep.’

  ‘Cath, Ellie here. You ducking me? Been trying to reach you all week. Big night tonight. Was hoping I could get you to tag along. I’ve got a couple of extra tickets. Thought you and Bernie might like to join me.’ I drummed the steering wheel. ‘Look, I’ll leave the tickets at the cashier under your name.’ I hung up. I had some ugly history with Bernie and didn’t really like that my best girlfriend had gone back to him, but it was her life. And I had my life and was determined to enjoy it.

  Hair and makeup for tonight was being done by the same lady who took care of me in the movie. Appropriate, I guess.

  Jane was an old pro. Really old. She must have been fifty, at least. She had unflagging energy, like a force of nature. She had invited me to her house in Glendale, where I was just arriving. She met me at the door with a smile and a glass of sparkling water with a slice of lime.

  ‘Ellie, dear. Right on time.’

  ‘Thank the GPS. I had no idea where I was going.’

  ‘You do your dress yet?’

  ‘It’s in a box in the car. It looks fantastic.’

  ‘Let’s see it. I need to do a makeup match. A subtle touch, but it could go awfully wrong if I don’t do it right. You better bring it into the studio.’

  ‘I’d rather not put it on until the last minute.’

  ‘Oh, honey, you don’t need to wear it. I just need to see it. To see the color, specifically.’

  ‘It’s red.’

  ‘Red?’ She smiled. ‘Would that be carnation? Cardinal? Cerise? Amaranth? I need my eyeballs on it. Takes just a minute and I’ll have it locked in my head. You go grab it and I’ll get the stuff ready in the studio. And you need to think about what you’d like done to your hair. Go. I’ll be waiting.’

  I said a force of nature, right?

  I showed her the dress. She gently lifted it out of the box and held it against my skin at my chest, my arms and my face.

  ‘This is a beautiful dress. Interesting counterpoint between your tan and this color. I hardly need to do anything. It’s almost embarrassing charging you. Almost. But not quite.’ She handed the dress back. ‘Spectacular. You’re going to be beautiful. You already are beautiful. So I have a big challenge. Put it down over there and sit.’

  She had a setup identical to the one she had on set and, like on set, I zoned out to my surroundings. She asked a few questions about what I wanted to do with my hair. I resisted telling her to cut it all off, even though the maintenance of it was becoming a huge time-waster.

  When the hair was finished (thin braids along the sides tied back in a cluster - very Topanga Canyon-ish) she spun the chair around to get my attention.

  ‘Are you thirsty? I’d ask if you’re hungry but that dress is going to be snug enough without any more food.’

  ‘Not really, why?’

  ‘Nothing touches your lips after I’m finished. Not until after the media after the premiere. Understand?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I understand. Apply the paint.’

  ‘I am an artist. Sit still.’

  Fifteen minutes or so later - it’s difficult to judge time when you’re sitting in a chair with your eyes closed while a woman paints your face - she stepped back.

  ‘Beautiful.’ She turned the chair to face the lit mirror. ‘What do you think?’

  I opened my eyes. I looked like I had a fresh summer tan, a beach glow that looked real. ‘How do you do that? It doesn’t look like I’m wearing makeup, but I know I am. It’s like you Photoshopped my actual face.’ I moved a hand toward my cheek and had it slapped down faster than a Sergio Leone gunfight.

  ‘No. Do not touch. Do whatever you want later tonight but right now, do not touch.’ She held out a hand and helped me out of the chair. ‘Have a fantastic night tonight. You’re going to be fine. The movie is going to do great and one day soon I’ll be pointing at you on TV and telling my grandkids “I used to make up her face”. Go have a bunch of fun and don’t forget the dress. I’m too short and fat for it. And red doesn’t look good on me.’

  I thanked her, was rebuffed when I tried to kiss her on the cheek and laughed as she scolded me for forgetting already. Now it was home and change and hope Marty wasn’t in a prankster mood with the limo.

  From Glendale back to my apartment was about thirty minutes. Marty would be showing up in a bit over an hour. Cutting it close. I pushed it a little on the I-10 and was edging Culver City when my phone rang.

  ‘Ellie speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Ell. Cathy here. I got your message. Wow. The premiere’s tonight?’

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. The tickets will be there. Can you make it?’

  ‘I’d really love to, but we’re in Branson.’

  ‘Missouri?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s another one. We’re flying in late tonight. Back in LA
in the morning. We need to catch up. It’s been too long.’

  ‘It has. Still with dip shit?’

  ‘Come on, Ellie. Bernie made a mistake. He apologized a hundred times. Let him be, okay? When are you free to come by for a barbecue? Just like old times. Eat a little food, get a little drunk, have a lot of fun.’

  I thought about my schedule. ‘Not trying to blow you off, Cath, but I’m completely booked with publicity gigs all over the US for the next two - almost three - weeks. It’s “g’day LA” tonight and “g’day USA” for the rest of the month. If it’s any consolation, I’m not going to be having any fun doing it.’

  ‘Right. Flying first class, best suites, pampered like a princess.’ She chuckled. ‘I’d hate it too.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean. No time is mine. It’s like a three-week long choreographed play with no intermissions. Tons o’ fun. Hey, you want to come along? I could use a friend by my side.’

  ‘Shit, that would be awesome, but no. Rehearsals start next Monday at the Los Angeles Shakespeare Theatre. You know, the one in Topanga Canyon. I’m Beatrice in Much Ado and Bernie is stage managing. You’ll have to come see it. It runs for a couple of months.’

  ‘Yup. I can see you as a Beatrice, never shutting up. Suits you.’ I swung on to the PCH. Two minutes to home. ‘Listen, Cath I really miss hanging with you. Damn shame you can’t make it. We could play sisters again. We had them convinced before.’

  ‘We’re almost identical twins, except I’ve got about twenty pounds on you.‘ Cathy paused. ‘What a shame. Our lives are too busy.’

  ‘I bet you wouldn’t want to change anything.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ve got to take it while it’s being handed to me. I’ve got to get going Ellie. We’ll catch up soon.’

  She hung up before I could reply. I really missed her. It had been too long. But I had to shake it off. Marty and his ride would be by in far too little time, and I had a movie to go see.

  Tonight would be an event which would alter the course of my life.

  Chapter Eight