The 22 Murders of Madison May

by Max Barry

  “Felicity,” Hugo said, pained, “don’t do that.”

  “Then tell me.”

  The silence stretched. “Look,” Hugo said, his tone all wrong, and she pressed End Call. She pushed back the sheet, went to the closet, and began pulling out clothes.

  “What’s going on?” Gavin said. “Who’s Clay?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Where?” He looked bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

  She tugged on jeans, pulled herself into a sweater. She went to the bathroom and pulled dirty clothes from the hamper until she found the pillowcase with the gun inside.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I have to go,” she said again. She found her bag and keys. Percival eyed her from the sofa. Joey was a tight package beneath the chair. She saw Gavin pulling on a jacket. “No,” she said. “You can’t.” His face was earnest and determined and she appreciated that he was doing this: that he didn’t know why she was marching into the night but was on board for it. But she couldn’t let him come. Gavin was just a man, who didn’t know what Clay was like. “Please, please, I need you to stay.” She kissed him in a way she hadn’t for a while. When she reached the door, she glanced back, and he was still there, in the living room, watching her go.

  13

  In Maddie’s third month of living Trent-free, the kitchen sink backed up and nothing she could do would free it. She tried poking knives down the plug hole. She made a special trip to the hardware store and purchased a rubber plunger and worked it until her arms ached. She made a second trip to the grocery store for industrial-strength drain cleaner and tipped in two large capfuls of bright blue sludge. She felt bad about that last one, because it smelled like death and couldn’t be good for the environment. Also, as it turned out, it didn’t work. She still had a sink full of scummy water.

  She remembered a similar incident a summer or two ago, which ended in Trent lying on his back, shirtless, his head stuck into the bowels of the cupboard, doing something with pipes. What, exactly, she couldn’t say. Something involving swearing.

  He had looked cute, though. On his back. With no shirt. In the heat.

  In these Trent-less times, though, Maddie was learning to be more resourceful. She had surprised and impressed herself with what she’d been able to accomplish with nothing more than her wits, trips to hardware stores, and YouTube searches. When the globe had blown in the bedroom three weeks ago, she had not phoned Trent, even though it was a deeply strange contraption that for the longest time refused to budge from its socket. She had not phoned him when the ancient SeaBreeze 2000 air-conditioning unit gave up the ghost two weeks earlier. She had phoned the super, though, as that one was beyond her powers. The super had promised to swing by in the morning and turned up at two in the afternoon, the literal moment she closed the bathroom door after hours of uncomfortable postponement, and he listened to her tale of woe (It was making a weird noise for a while and then it just stopped) with a skeptical air, like she couldn’t be trusted to diagnose anything about an air-conditioning unit, not even whether it was working. She disliked dealing with the super for exactly this reason. But then he hadn’t been able to fix it, either, and, beyond her wildest dreams, she wound up getting a replacement. She was enjoying freshly cooled air right now from a sleek white unit that had undulating fins and no damp smell.

  She pulled open the kitchen cupboard and peered inside. The feature of this arrangement was a thick plastic pipe that curved dramatically before disappearing into the wall. It made a U shape, she decided. That was called a P-trap. She vaguely recollected Trent dismantling this. He’d used a bucket. That was how you cleared a blockage: You removed the P-trap part of the pipe and cleaned out whatever was crudding it up.

  This was enough for a YouTube search. Her first three videos said it was a simple job that could be performed at home. They also said she might be able to remove the pipe by hand, with no tools, which turned out to be untrue. “But it’s much easier this way,” said a bespectacled man who reminded her a little of her father, before the stroke. The man raised a wrench and smiled, like, of course you would use a wrench, so pop down to your basement and grab one. Maddie did not have a basement. She did not have a wrench. But she had a credit card, a local hardware store, and a thirst for self-sufficiency. She watched the video all the way to the end, in case there were more tools that a person about to grapple with a P-trap might need. But aside from a bucket, which she did own, that seemed to be it.

  She walked the three blocks to Ace Hardware, a cream brick building with a red awning that looked like it could do with a little home maintenance itself. Behind the counter was a little man with a huge mustache, who had been there every time she’d been in. “Back again! What do you need this time?”

  “Wrench,” she said, like no big deal, she was always buying wrenches.

  “Against the back wall.”

  There was a wide variety of wrenches. It was a small store but big on wrenches. Most of the tools didn’t resemble the one she’d seen the bespectacled man use in the video. Finally she stumbled upon it—it was an adjustable wrench; that was the key—and took it to the front of the store.

  The man gazed at it unhappily. “Why you want this?”

  “I’m fixing a sink,” she said. “A P-trap.”

  He shook his head. “These are no good. Fall apart. Wait here.” He raised the counter and disappeared into the aisle. When he returned, he was carrying a wrench she hadn’t seen before. It was bigger, with a black grip on the handle. “Take this. For you, same price.”

  “Oh, thank you so much.”

  He nodded and rang it up: thirteen dollars and forty cents, with tax. “It is good,” the man said. “A girl using tools.”

  “You bet,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  She was not prepared for the volume of water. She had her bucket, a dinky green thing that she occasionally used for panic clothes washing, and had carefully positioned it beneath the P-trap. But as soon as she worked the pipe loose, it vomited forth brown fluid, splashing her. The stench was overpowering. She tried to angle the bucket, but not very successfully, because the space was so cramped. She reached for her emergency towels and tried to stop the brine from slopping across the kitchen floor.

  She had almost quarantined the kitchen when her phone rang. It was balanced on the kitchen counter and she wasn’t going to answer it, but the screen said neil forest, and Neil was her agent, her L.A. one, with whom she’d signed six months ago, after he attended an off-off-Broadway play she was doing at the last minute because a production of A Streetcar Named Desire had lost funding immediately after casting her and collapsed. Neil worked at Proximate Artists and was by far Maddie’s best chance at ever being cast in anything substantial. This was the third time he had ever called her.

  She dried her hands on her sopping towel, tapped, and wedged the phone beneath her chin. “Hello?”

  “Stop what you’re doing.”

  Water was attempting to sneak under her fridge. She went after it with the towel.

  “Have you stopped?”

  “Yes,” she lied, because she didn’t want to have to move a fridge.

  “Your life is about to change.”

  Now she stopped. Water oozed beneath her fridge. The way The Dream went, you busted your ass in two-bit productions for years and felt like you were making no progress, until, all of a sudden, with no warning, it happened. You received The Call.

  “So there’s a Calvin Anderson film,” Neil said. “Family pic with Warners. By the River Blue. You remember we had you audition for the part of the youngest sister a few months back?”

  “Of course. They cast Aria Astwell.” Maddie and Aria had sat across from each other in the hallway. Aria had smiled at her briefly but otherwise remained very focused and determined in a way that had slightly gotten into Maddie’s head.<
br />
  “Very talented actor,” Neil said. “Got a hell of a career ahead of her, once she gets out of traction.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Aria fell off a horse. Totally fucked up her spine. She’s looking at six months of physical therapy. Maddie, they want you. You have to get to Los Angeles. As in, immediately. There’s a gathering tomorrow night with Calvin and I want you there.” He paused. “Are you there?”

  She was on the floor, wetness soaking into her pants. “Yes.” The word came out with no air.

  Neil laughed. “My assistant, Yvonne, will call you back in fifteen minutes with flight details. When she does, be ready to leave.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Are you all right?”

  She was sitting in filth. The smell alone was enough to bring her to tears. “Yes.”

  “Great,” Neil said. “Now get moving.”

  * * *

  —

  She threw three changes of clothes and toiletries into a gym bag and conducted the world’s fastest shower. When she was pulling on a shirt, her phone trilled. “Hello, Maddie? It’s Yvonne, Neil’s assistant. How are you?”

  “I’m great,” she said. “I’m excited.”

  “So am I,” said Yvonne, although Maddie had never met her. “We’ve all been rooting for you. It’s wonderful news.” Meaning Maddie getting the part, Maddie presumed. Not Aria Astwell falling off a horse. “Are you almost ready to go?”

  “I’m ready right now.”

  “Oh, wonderful. There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. Can you head on down?”

  She opened her front door and glanced back at the apartment. No one had better break in and use the sink while she was gone. The P-trap was on the floor, beside her wrench.

  “The driver will take you to Newark. I’ve sent you the confirmation number for the flight. We’ll have someone meet you at LAX. I’ve booked you into the Waldorf Astoria Beverly Hills on Wilshire; I hope that’s all right.”

  “That sounds great.” She wondered who was paying for this.

  “If you have any questions, give me a call. Anytime.”

  “Thank you, Yvonne.”

  “You’re very welcome. Enjoy it.”

  “I will.”

  “Really,” Yvonne said. “Soak it in. Everything you’ve worked for is coming true.” The last word was garbled because Maddie was stepping into the elevator and she wasn’t sure she’d heard it correctly. The doors closed and the call disappeared. She put her phone into her pocket. When she exited onto the street, a black Town Car was double-parked, the passenger window down, the driver leaning across to peer at her. “Madison May?” When she nodded, he sprang out and hurried around the car to open the door for her.

  She slid into cool air. “Thank you so much.”

  “Very welcome, ma’am.” He shut the door.

  * * *

  —

  At the gate, she had a moment. She was sitting against the wall with her bag at her feet and her earphones in. Across the aisle, a harassed couple wrangled four children under the age of six. “Jayden,” said the man, “if you don’t come back here right now, God help me.” Another man tried to squeeze by and Maddie lifted her legs to her chest to make room and his briefcase clonked her elbow and he grunted something that might have been an apology or might not. The thought popped into her head before she could stop it: It won’t be like this when I’m famous.

  Incredible. She had been cast in a movie for five minutes.

  Power corrupts, a girl with whom she’d studied at NYU had once intoned, and being cast in a Quentin Tarantino movie corrupts absolutely, which was a specific reference to a classmate who had indeed been cast in a Quentin Tarantino movie and immediately turned into a giant shit. But clearly the general principle applied. Maddie was already imagining it: Herself at this gate, but wearing sunglasses and a big hat that failed to hide her face, because people were nudging each other, Isn’t that Maddie May? And she wasn’t alone, of course; there was someone with her, a friend or boyfriend, and Maddie was like, Ugh, why do they make first-class use the same gate as the rabble? It’s so tiresome, while she signed autographs and smiled flatly for selfies, and her boyfriend was like, Actually they don’t, this is your ignorant fantasy.

  “All passengers for Flight 77 to Los Angeles, general boarding is now open,” someone said, possibly a recording. “All passengers, you may now board.”

  She snickered and the man who had pushed past turned and stared at her. I’m sorry, she thought helplessly. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just in a fairy tale.

  She joined the line and showed her phone to the flight attendant, who greeted her by name, like a VIP. She walked to the plane and it was actual red carpet. She squeezed into her crappy economy seat and she could have been at the cinema, about to watch the showing of a movie, featuring her.

  * * *

  —

  Somewhere during their descent into LAX, it occurred to her that Neil had not actually said: You’ve got the part. What he’d said was: They want you.

  She had been around long enough to realize that people wanted things all the time: Producers wanted to make scripts at studios that wanted to finance them helmed by directors who wanted to work with actors who wanted to find the free time. Despite all of this wanting, more often than not, the thing did not happen. I want was more like I wish. It was actually more like: Probably not.

  This explained something else Maddie hadn’t been clear on: why it was essential for her to fly to L.A. for a party. Neil wanted her there to lock it down. To turn the maybe into yes.

  By the time she reached the driver with the madison may sign, she no longer felt like a newly discovered fairy princess. En route to the hotel, he asked her what she’d been in, and she said, “Nothing, really,” which was the truth. So far, she actually hadn’t done squat. She was nobody. If she were to change that, she had work to do.

  * * *

  —

  Neil called that night, as she was eating room service on her giant bed. She was wearing a white robe. The TV was the size of a table. The curtains were open and the glass was full of spotlit palm trees. It was all exactly as you would expect.

  “Maddie May,” Neil said, sounding like he was in his car. “I am so sorry I didn’t get to you before now. How are you? Is the room all right?”

  “It’s amazing.”

  “Fantastic. I just wanted to see if you have anything to wear for tomorrow night.”

  Her gym bag contained a violet fit-and-flare dress, which she had stuffed inside during her four-minute exit window. It was fun and classy, and she had previously worn it with positive results. But when she’d unpacked it onto the three-hundred-thread-count sheets in the Waldorf Astoria, it looked small and cheap, like something a student would wear. “I’m going shopping tomorrow.”

  “No, don’t do that. Yvonne will take you to a dealer.”

  “A what?” she said.

  “He’s this hundred-year-old wizard who lives out in the Hills. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Okay,” she said, wondering what that meant, exactly.

  “Yvonne will be in touch. And you and I will talk tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it.”

  Minutes later, her phone buzzed: Yvonne would meet her at eleven a.m. at an address in the Hollywood Hills. She resisted the urge to ask questions and tapped out: Ok great! Thank you!

  She’d been planning on catching up on her messages—maybe even call a few people. But Neil was probably right: Tomorrow would be exhausting on multiple levels. She turned off the TV, finished her meal, and went to brush her teeth.

  * * *

  —

  The streets of the Hollywood Hills were cracked, curved, and impossibly narrow, like driveways, their houses sunken into the earth or else hidden, fortresslike, by fences or foliage.
Behind a high gate and a brutalist façade, Maddie was introduced to Lionel, who was the size of a garden gnome. “Lionel collects vintage pieces,” Yvonne confided to her. Yvonne herself was eight feet tall, with impossible limbs, like a baby giraffe. “When a person is finished with a special-occasion gown, he acquires it and hides it away.” A person, in this context, meant a celebrity, Maddie guessed. Someone who would wear a thing once.

  She was measured and squeezed, then spent ninety minutes being presented with a procession of gowns beyond what she could ever afford, which Lionel fetched from a room she was forbidden to enter. “This one,” he said finally, and Yvonne nodded and said yes, exactly, she couldn’t agree more. It was a strapless lilac tulle gown with texture across the bodice and a floating hemline, so that the fabric wafted and moved around her as if of its own volition, as if Maddie were a princess, and also magic. “Chanel,” Lionel said, and Maddie opened her mouth in dismay, because that sealed it, there was no way she could afford this. But Yvonne bent and clasped Lionel’s hands and thanked him and said Lionel had saved them again, how did he do it.

  Yvonne saw Maddie’s face. “Do you not like it?”

  She chose her words. “I’m sure it’s very expensive—”

  “Oh, no, that’s no problem,” Yvonne said, apparently mortified. “We loan you the dress.”

  “The flight,” Maddie said. “The hotel. I don’t know how—”

  “Maddie,” Yvonne said. “It is a small investment in you, which we have great faith will be repaid. Please, don’t mention it. Enjoy the dress. Keep it as long as you like.”

  After the dress were shoes—silver Manolo Blahniks—and hair. There was also a pair of earrings, Yvonne said, which Neil would bring for her. By the time she returned to her hotel, it was five o’clock. She did her own makeup—that, at least, she felt competent enough to perform solo—and was waiting by the curb when a black SUV slid by with Neil inside. He was wearing a light tan jacket with a white shirt. A ridiculous hunk of gold dangled from his wrist. He was more tanned than she remembered, and more fit. “You look fantastic,” he said, pulling out of the hotel. Someone honked. “You’re going to kill them tonight. Oh, and before I forget. Is there a box in there? Excuse the mess.” He tapped the seat compartment.