by Mark Gimenez
THE PERK
MARK GIMENEZ
Navarchus Press
Praise for THE PERK
Best-seller lists
No. 6, Ireland
No. 11, Australia
No. 17, UK hardback
"Remember when John Grisham exploded on to the courtroom drama market with novels of breathtaking brilliance? Lightning just struck twice."
- The Daily Record (Scotland)
"Gimenez returns to the complex legal thrillers where he seems to be at his best. The Perk has mystery, humour and history along with well-drawn characters that the reader will actually care about. As is often the case in legal thrillers, there is a mix of those characters that take the moral high ground and those who seem just out for their own good. Unusually, there are also a few comic and slightly caricatured figures here as well—but they all fit well together in the plot. Together with great characters and a strong plot there is also lots of interesting historical information. The ending may not be what is expected but it is all the better for it and proves to be a good finish to an excellent book. As ever, Gimenez is highly recommended, impossible to put down and definitely not to be missed."
- CrimeSquad.com (UK)
"Just as well I started The Perk on the weekend, as I couldn't put down this book… . This one's a cracker—neatly woven subplots, a taut thriller and a wonderfully current statement on American popular culture. And yes, Gimenez may possibly be the next Grisham."
- Kerre's Book Reviews (UK)
“Gimenez fills the John Grisham hole in the legal-thriller genre so well there may be no room left for Grisham.”
– The Sunday Times (Perth)
"Gimenez's novels are gripping, intense thrillers. Guaranteed to keep you up well into the night, The Perk is an exceptionally well crafted novel, populated by a cast of characters that are realistically-drawn and appealing. As always, thought-provoking, intelligent, and addictive. Highly recommended."
- Civilian-Reader (UK)
Top Ten of 2008—"We read lots of thrillers and they can tend to merge into one another. The Perk stood out by a mile as an excellent example of the genre and a stunning, well told tale in its own right. Gimenez' stature continues to grow."
- CrimeSquad.com (UK)
LEARN MORE ABOUT MARK GIMENEZ'S BOOKS AT
www.markgimenez.com
Copyright © 2008 by Mark Gimenez
Published by Navarchus Press, LLC
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Navarchus Press, LLC. Published in the United States of America.
ISBN 978-0-9839875-1-2
British Hardback ISBN 978-1-84744-071-6
British C Format ISBN 978-1-84744-070-9
British A Format ISBN 978-0-7515-3967-7
Epub Edition: 1.01 (11/28/2011)
Ebook conversion: Fowler Digital Services
Rendered by: Ray Fowler
Cover image © Larry Lilac/Alamy Images
Cover design: Little, Brown Book Group – Sean Garrehy
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Map
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
Books By Mark Gimenez
Praise for Mark's Books
For Sandra Trujillo-Garcia, who fought for all her students every day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks to everyone at Little, Brown Book Group in the UK, as well as everyone at Hachette Livre and Little, Brown in Australia and New Zealand and Penguin Books in South Africa, for making my books best sellers around the world; to Archana Ganaraj, M.D., a skilled and compassionate breast cancer surgeon, Barbara Hautanen for the Spanish translations and Marita Fisher for the German translations, and Clay Gimenez for his research; to Joel Tarver at T Squared Design in Houston for my website and email blasts to my readers; and to all my friends in Fredericksburg, who spoke so openly and honestly about their lives and their town—you know who you are and you know why I'm not mentioning you by name. It's a small town. And thanks to all the readers who have emailed me about my books. Your thoughts and comments are greatly appreciated. I look forward to hearing from you.
www.markgimenez.com
Justice?—You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.
- From A Frolic of His Own by William Gaddis
PROLOGUE
She was posing outside the limo with a dozen other girls, like illegal Mexicans waiting for work on L.A. street corners.
Sixth Street was packed with perks.
He had come back to Texas for the film festival in Austin—okay, it's not exactly Cannes or even Sundance, but there were always plenty of gorgeous Texas girls willing to play groupie-for-a-day to a famous movie star. Jesus, they came out of the woodwork, especially in a college town like Austin, incredibly beautiful coeds thinking that if they laid a movie star they might become a star, too.
Of course, all they become is laid.
But he viewed groupies the same way he viewed private jets, personal trainers, Swedish masseuses, and chauffeured limousines like the one he was riding in tonight: perks of the trade. He was twenty-nine, he was remarkably handsome, and his last film had grossed $250 million domestic. He got a lot of perks.
And he had just spotted his next one—blonde, beautiful, and built like a Playmate.
It was New Year's Eve and she was wearing a white blouse so sheer a blind man could see she wasn't wearing a bra, a butt-hugging black miniskirt, and black stiletto heels; she was swinging a little black purse like a hypnotist swinging a pocket watch in front of her subject—and he was mesmerized by her. He lowered the blacked-out window and pointed at her like he was picking out a prime cut at the meat market. She damn near dove into the limo through the open window.
It was that easy.
He snorted another line of the white powder and chased it with a shot of whiskey while she settled back into the plush leather seat across from him and looked around the limo like a kid at Disneyland. You couldn't slap the smile off her face. She said, "I always wanted to ride in a limo."
"Honey, you're gonna get to do more than just ride."
"I'm Heidi Fay,"
she said, as if he would actually remember her name tomorrow. "I'm gonna be a big star one day."
"Sure you are, sweetie. You go to UT?"
"Uh, yeah."
He patted the seat next to him, and she bounced over. He dove into her breasts and slid his hand up her smooth inner thigh until he touched a bit of heaven on earth. She scooted away from his hand.
"Can I have something to drink?"
Playing hard to get, was she? Well, he had the cure for that. He removed his hand from under her skirt and raised up; she was holding out a cell phone.
"Sis will never believe this is happening to me."
The thought that she had just taken his photo never entered his intoxicated mind because his brain's diminished capacity could focus on only one thing now.
"Oh, it's about to happen to you, honey."
He turned to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He turned back and saw she was still fiddling with her cell phone.
"You don't want to call anyone."
He took the phone out of her hand and tossed it onto the seat across from them. Then he filled the shot glass and held it out to her.
"I mean, like Coke," she said.
"Darlin', you don't drink my kind of coke. Bottoms up."
She downed the whiskey and almost gagged. He refilled her glass, twice to make sure. Then he lined out some more cocaine on the little mirror and held the straw out to her.
"Oh, I don't do drugs," she said.
He thought, Yeah, and you're a virgin, too.
He said, "Then you don't really want to be a star, do you?" He gestured outside with the straw. "Maybe I'll make one of those girls a star."
She stared out the window like a kid leaving home for the first time, then took a deep breath and the straw, bent over, and snorted the coke. She straightened up and sneezed. Twice. Hell, maybe she really was a first-timer. Maybe she was a virgin. That got him more excited, so he nudged her head down for two more long lines. When she came back up, her blue eyes were so dilated they looked black. He unbuttoned her blouse without objection—now that was more like it—and buried his face in her soft breasts. Damn, they felt real. He leaned into her, and they fell back onto the seat. He reached up her skirt and pulled her thong down, then unzipped himself and pushed into her.
He lasted almost a full minute.
He pushed himself off her and drank whiskey from the bottle. She struggled up, fell onto the floorboard, then crawled onto the seat across from him. She worked herself into a sitting position.
She was a sight: her blouse hanging open and her bare breasts staring back at him like twin sisters, her skirt up around her waist like a tutu, and her black lace thong wrapped around her ankle. But she still smiled pretty-please and said in a slurred speech, "Can you get me an audition in Hollywood?"
They all asked the same question. But before he could give her his stock reply—"Honey, that was your audition"—her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell over like a stunt girl acting as if she'd been shot dead.
"Aw, shit."
He looked at her lying there passed out and shook his head. What the hell was he going to do with her now? He couldn't just open the door and roll her out onto the Sixth Street sidewalk crowded with agents, writers, managers, groupies, panhandlers, drunk college kids, and cops. And he couldn't very well throw an unconscious coed over his shoulder and haul her right through the front door of the five-star Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin, waving at fans and walking through a gauntlet of paparazzi on the way up to the Cattle Baron's Suite—that wouldn't sit well with the studio brass, not to mention his pregnant wife. And he couldn't just leave her to sleep it off; what if the cops found her in his limo? That would make Entertainment Tonight for sure. And besides, he needed the limo, much like a professional bass fisherman needed his lures: the night was young and the fish were biting.
He'd take her home. That's what he'd do. He could haul her right into her apartment without fanfare or embarrassing photos. College coed, he figured she lived near the UT campus. So he grabbed her purse and searched inside for her student ID. He found it, stared at it, shook his head to clear his vision, and stared at it again.
He felt as if some part of him had died.
Heidi wasn't a college coed. Her student ID wasn't from the University of Texas. She wasn't twenty-one or twenty or even nineteen. Heidi Fay wasn't her real name—it was Heidi Fay Geisel. And Heidi Fay Geisel was a sixteen-year-old high school junior.
Fuck.
He then did what he always did in stressful personal situations: he freaked. So he snorted another line and downed another shot, which calmed him down and allowed his mind to work. Sort of. And he came up with a plan. The same plan.
They would take Heidi home.
But she didn't live in Austin. So he climbed over her and crawled up front and handed her ID to Rudy, who consulted the map in the limo's glove compartment and located her hometown—some burg seventy miles west of Austin. Thirty minutes later, they were carefully driving the speed limit down a dark highway so as not to get pulled over by some Barney Fife looking for his fifteen minutes of fame: PODUNK COUNTY SHERIFF ARRESTS MOVIE STAR WITH UNDER-AGE GIRL IN LIMO.
I don't think so.
He called up to Rudy for the fifth time: "We there yet? How much longer?" Rudy just shook his shaved head and shrugged his broad shoulders. Rudy Jaramillo had been his driver and bodyguard since A Hard Night, his first $100-million-gross film. Driver-bodyguards were perks of the trade, too.
It was now past midnight, and it had started to rain. Flashes of distant lightning illuminated the night sky outside and the nearly naked Heidi inside. She had a great body … an unconscious body … a sixteen-year-old body.
Shit.
He gazed out at the dark Texas landscape and sighed. The night was ruined and he was bored, a condition he could not tolerate for any extended period of time. So he pulled out his cell phone and was surprised to get a signal. He dialed his manager back in L.A.; it was two hours earlier out west, not that he hadn't called Billy at 3:00 A.M. when the urge hit him. Billy answered on the third ring.
"How's Texas, my boy?"
Billy always called him "my boy," which sort of pissed him off.
"Playing cowboy for the local yokels."
"And you're so good at it."
"I'm an actor, Billy." He took a deep breath and then said, "What's the word?"
Billy sighed into the phone. "Clooney."
His blood pressure spiked. "Clooney? Are you shittin' me? He's what, forty-fucking-years old?"
"Actually, forty-two."
"Forty-two? That's way too old to be the sexiest man alive! I'm the sexiest man alive!"
"Yes, of course you are, my boy. You are indeed. Absolutely! It's just not fair. Not fair at all."
He immediately decided it was his manager's fault; Clooney had a better manager—that's why he had won! So when he returned to L.A. he would fire Billy and hire a better manager. Maybe Clooney's manager. At least a manager who didn't call him "my boy."
After his blood pressure had returned to normal, his attention returned to the phone at his ear; his soon-to-be-ex-manager had launched into a long discourse about the unfairness of it all, like the judging at the Olympic figure-skating competition—the figure-skating competition?—but he was already thinking of names of potential new managers.
When Billy finished, he disconnected then called his pregnant wife to find out how much of his money she had spent that day on baby stuff. She was due in one month. He could barely bring himself to look at her naked; she looked like a beached whale. Heidi did not.
Thank God for perks.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
"We're here."
He struggled to open his eyes. "Where?"
"The girl's home," Rudy said.
He glanced at Heidi. She was still sleeping it off.
"What time is it?"
"Almost one."
He had fallen asleep. He wa
s still groggy. He put his face against the wet window as they slowed and entered a small rural town; they pulled up to a red light. The light changed, and just as they eased through the intersection a flash of lightning off to his right lit up a huge ship looming large overhead like it was about to ram the frigging limo. He ducked back into the seat.
"Shit!"
But another lightning flash showed it was just a goddamn building with a second story shaped like the bow of a goddamn boat—what's that, some kind of fucking joke?
The limo moved forward at a slow crawl; no doubt Rudy was wary of local law enforcement, what with his record and an unconscious minor female in the back. They drove down a deserted Main Street—the street sign read Hauptstrasse—and under a big banner that read WELCOME-WILLKOMMEN-BIENVENIDOS and a canopy of Christmas lights strung over the street. He stared out the window, expecting to see the typical small Texas town Main Street lined with convenience stores, fast-food joints, a liquor store, a VFW Hall, a used-car lot, and maybe a Piggly-Wiggly. But instead he saw a motel fashioned like a Bavarian chalet, a German brewery, and Old World-style buildings outlined in twinkling lights with second-story balconies and colorful awnings shading art galleries and quaint shops selling antiques and boutiques selling fashionable clothes and stores selling handmade crafts, quilts, and jewelry, and … Is that a Tommy Bahama shop? The island lifestyle three hundred miles from the nearest island?
Buildings shaped like boats and cowboys wearing Tommy Bahama—where the hell am I?
Even on a stormy night, it was like he was looking at a postcard and not from anyplace in the Texas he knew. Christ, he was glad his wife wasn't with him, and not just because of Heidi lying there; because this was exactly the colorful picture-perfect Christmas-card kind of small town that his wife would "ooh" and "aah" over as being so quaint and cute and cuddly that she'd want to buy the whole damn place—with his money!
Red, black, and yellow German flags flapped in the dark night, colorful umbrellas at outdoor restaurants sported names like Spaten and Franziskaner and Weissbier, and signs with Ausländer Biergarten, Vereins Kirche, Alte Fritz, Der Lindenbaum, Der Küchen Laden, Der this, and Der that hung on buildings up and down this Main Street.