It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller

by Sharn Hutton

  Jerry made her miserable. It was all wrong. Too wrapped up in his deceit to see how she suffered and she was everything: beauty and passion; mother and lover; the essence of life, of good.

  McGinty flashed across his synapses, relishing his cruel story, another player for the devil. Adam’s heart rate rose. That terrified old lady: humiliated and abused. The acid churned in Adam’s gut. Another flash: his grandmother: still elegant but frail. A beatific smile he hadn’t seen in five years or more; and then the house, windows turned to soulless eyes when curtains were torn down and shipped: his childhood home made sad when they abandoned him and moved abroad. He clenched his jaw. It was all so unfair. He had to tip the balance back and make it right.

  He had to make it happen.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  THE BIRDS CHIRRUPED IN THE BUDDING TREES and a small boy on a tricycle rattled past, tongue poked out in avid concentration. Winter sunshine cast a hopeful glow.

  Sitting on the wooden bench, Remi could see across the open parkland to backstage suburbia’s erratic fencing and garden sheds. Dog walkers traversed the twisting park paths, swinging plastic bags, while their dogs charged back and forth, chasing balls and each other. Occasional good-spirited tussles sent them rolling through puddles and brought their owners together in a momentary meeting of lives.

  At the bottom of the hill crouched a colourful playground, where a huddle of mothers encouraged toddlers up gentle climbing frames and down slides. Their voices carried in a unified jolly murmur and Remi absorbed their contentment, bolstering his jaded soul with the purity of childhood.

  It was strange how an afternoon spent freezing his arse off in the park had held no appeal for Jerry until he wasn’t able to do it. He may have been holed up in an oasis, but the Nevada desert was too extreme to be comfortable: too hot in the sun and too cold in the air conditioned flow that swept down across his bed. You knew where you were with the temperature in England. The weather was crap and you wrapped yourself up. Here he always seemed to be wearing slightly too much or too little.

  Remi had met up with department heads during his morning in the office and now had pressing business to attend to: an afternoon in the park. The fresh snap in the air put an invigorating tingle in his lungs.

  Beside him square-toed Mary-Janes swung back and forth, impatient to be moving on. She put her tiny hand in his, soft plump fingers squeezing tight and turned rosy cheeks to face him. “Daddy, can we go to the playground?”

  Remi smiled. “OK. It’s getting cold just sitting here.” He planted her, giggling, onto his shoulders and they set off down the hill. “You warm enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to wear my hat?”

  “No.”

  “Need to pee?”

  “Daddy!” She giggled and off they went. Saving the world and running an empire could wait until tomorrow.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  SPINK GAZED OUT THROUGH THE EXPANSE OF GLASS at the top of Mango’s tower, down to the scurrying delegates below. They scuttled from stand to stand, still searching for their crumb. Spink’s lay before him on the thick glass table: a letter of intent, confirming that he, Donald Spink, was to handle the new working relationship between Locksley PR and Mango Worldwide.

  He’d bloody done it, beaten Adler hands down. Where was that snivelling idiot anyway? He needed to rub it in, make sure that Adler knew he was the better man. He’d vaporised since yesterday’s encounter on the train.

  Spink tapped his foot, impatient to be on his way. The creeping gap between shoe leather and sole flexing in irritated gasps.

  They were in the final throes of the latest Mango corporate video Drinkwater had insisted on showing him ‘to get his creative juices flowing’. The only lubrication Spink was interested in, however, waited in green glass behind the hotel bar. A celebration was in order.

  Drinkwater flicked off the plasma with a slim silver remote. “So that’s it, Donald. That gives you a good idea of where we are.”

  “Yup, yup. Very interesting, Eric.” Spink plastered on an enthusiastic grin. “Can’t wait to get started.” Can’t wait to crack the whip over the juniors—remind them who’s boss.

  “I’ll get legal to draw up the contract as soon as I get back and we’ll have you over for lunch and to sign on the dotted line when it’s ready. How does that sound?” Eric extended his hand for Spink to shake.

  “Excellent. Can’t wait to blue sky some ideas. Perhaps we can throw a few against the wall over lunch, see what sticks?”

  “Sure.” Drinkwater turned and headed for the door. As he moved away, a small piece of paper fluttered from him and wove its way down to the floor. Spink bent to pick it up. It was a restaurant receipt, excellent. He stuffed into his pocket before Drinkwater had a chance to notice. As he patted him on the back, they ambled down the stairs together. “Been an excellent exhibition, wouldn’t you say?” said Spink.

  “More to come. I’ll see you in London.”

  Spink shook his hand one final time then made off through the fluorescent sprawl toward the monorail.

  ~

  Comfortable on his double seat, Spink examined the receipt: dinner for four at Andre’s. What luck, he could pretend he’d taken Mango out. The casino had torn a strip off him last night so an extra three hundred and fifty dollars in his expense claim would help to claw some of it back. Even so, he’d better take it easy from now on.

  Winning Mango was going to keep him his job in the long run but, short term he’d still got some serious cash flow problems. The Cranley would want their money when he got back and the Mouse’s jewellery wasn’t safe in the pawn shop. She hadn’t noticed it was missing yet and, if he continued not to take her anywhere good enough to wear it, she might never. Still, it was good to have the jewellery held in reserve to get him out of sticky situations just like this.

  Disembarking the train he headed to the bar for a scotch or two to steel his nerves. Tonight he had to beat the casino.

  FORTY-NINE

  THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN TO REVEAL A PITIFUL SIGHT: Jerry, hunched in a hotel bathrobe. He turned, groaned and shuffled away.

  “Oh dear.” Adam pushed his hands into his pockets and followed Jerry into the room, kicking the door closed. “Jerry, have you been like this all day?”

  “Mm.”

  “You didn’t make it to the exhibition?”

  “Mm.”

  Adam strutted around the room, observing the mess that Jerry had made of it. Extracting a fist from his pocket, he stood a tipped glass and straightened its coaster. “Are you like this at home?”

  Jerry sighed and gave him a petulant look. Adam had put the mess down to Peanut but, now he could see: Jerry was responsible for that too. He refocused on the task at hand. “Anyway, come on, we’re celebrating.” There was more than one reason to get Jerry plastered, again.

  Jerry scoffed and flopped backwards onto the dishevelled bed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Yeah, right? It’s not every day that Mango Europe pick out their new PR people, now is it?”

  Jerry’s blank expression grew wider eyed, the dim light of a distant memory creeping through the dark recesses of his brain. “Mango Europe?”

  “In. The. Casino.” Adam was speaking deliberately slowly. “They’re calling you. Remember?”

  “Oh! Oh crap!” Jerry leapt up and scrabbled through the heap of clothes on the chair, eventually pulling out his phone. “Two missed calls. No!” He stabbed at the phone and thrust it to his ear, listening to voicemail.

  The expression on his face, initially panicked, evolved into horror. He stabbed at the phone to move on to the next message and closed his eyes, listening. Eventually, he tossed it to the bed and slumped down, head in hands.

  “So?”

  After a deep breath Jerry said, “It’s OK. They had full afternoon with an important client. Oona wants me to call her in the morning.” He looked up at Adam and laughed with a shake of his head. “Jesus. I thought that was it for a minute.”


  “Idiot.”

  “Wanker.”

  “Get dressed.”

  Jerry rolled his head back and slouched into himself. “I feel like shit.”

  “What you need,” said Adam, circling the end on the bed, “is the hair of the dog.” He laid his hands on Jerry’s shoulders then gripped and pulled him up. “You’ve got Mango in the palm of your hand, Jerry. We need to celebrate. A couple of drinks inside you and you’ll be right as rain, you’ll see.”

  Jerry looked doubtful.

  “Bathroom. Shower. Clothes.” He spun him around and pushed him on his way. Jerry shut the bathroom door behind him, grumbling.

  “This room is a shit hole.”

  “I didn’t let the maid in,” Jerry called through the wood.

  Adam prowled around the bed, replacing pillows and pulling the covers straight, until it was smooth and made. He approached the tangled heap of clothes on the chair and searched through them for Jerry’s key card, which he slid into his own back pocket. “Don’t take too long. I’m going down to save us a place in the lobby bar.” The sound of water gushed on the other side of the door. “Jerry?”

  “Yeah. OK.”

  “Don’t go back to bed.”

  Something mumbled, then, “I’ll be there in a minute, God.”

  Satisfied, Adam turned on his heel and left. The room was good enough.

  Down in the lobby, he positioned himself on the banquette facing the lifts, pulled out his phone and called the number he’d researched back in the UK: a licensed brothel outside the Las Vegas borders that followed regulations and would send the girls to you. The financial transactions all happened on your credit card and out of town where it was legal. A loophole he intended to exploit, for himself this time.

  “Vegas Nights. What’s your pleasure?” A woman’s voice oozed down the line.

  “I’d like to arrange some company. A surprise for a friend. He’s kind of particular. Can you help me?”

  “Sure, honey. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Jerry.”

  “And what does your friend like?”

  “She needs to be small, slim, you know. Dark hair, not too long or wiggy and pale skin. Pretty.” Adam thought of Rachel. There was no hope of them even getting close to her, but a passing resemblance might help if Jerry was drunk enough.

  “Anything else?”

  “Straightforward stuff. It’s a treat.”

  “We have just the girl: Adora. Where are you, honey?”

  “I’d like her to meet me at the MGM Grand, by the main entrance at ten-thirty tonight.”

  “Sure thing. I just need your credit card.”

  Adam gave her what she needed, took a deep breath and pocketed the phone. The heat of adrenalin burned in his cheeks: he’d set the cogs in motion.

  The lobby bar was jumping. Music pumped and the crowd swayed. He squeezed through, ordered a bottle of champagne then spotted a table and staked his claim. Tonight had to be a celebration. He needed Jerry to feel good and get into the vibe. Girls danced up on the bar in brazen short skirts that flashed their panties, pushing out their breasts and popping their hips. Salivating men gazed up at them. Adam watched impassively and wondered if they were hookers too. It took all sorts, after all who was he to judge, given what he’d just done. He wondered if somewhere there was a malicious pimp that took their money. A pang of regret crept up his back: he’d been on the payroll. He’d proved beyond all reasonable doubt the inculpability of a rich villain, over and over again.

  Paying for the hooker didn’t feel good but, at least the girls from Vegas Nights worked under the protection of the law, with health screening and regular pay. It was a means to an end, for them and for him.

  He checked his watch. He had a little more than two hours to set the scene.

  Twenty long minutes later Jerry wobbled up the steps and paused squinting around the bar. Adam waved him over. Sauntering up to the table, Jerry eyed the ice bucket with disdain. “Champagne?” he groaned.

  “Celebrating, remember?” Adam sloshed out two foaming flutes. “Cheers!” He chinked with Jerry and stared at his glass with wide expectant eyes. Jerry sighed and took a sip. Adam smiled. “Took your time.”

  “Couldn’t find my key card. Had to get another from reception.”

  Adam made no comment, but prayed the pilfered card in his pocket had not been cancelled. Adam tipped his drink into his mouth and grabbed the bottle for a refill. Jerry’s glass was still full. Adam rolled an encouraging hand at it. “Celebrating…”

  Obediently Jerry knocked it back and shuddered.

  “Atta boy.” Adam filled it to the brim.

  A change in music cued the dancing girls’ return.

  “Why don’t you get us some beers?” said Adam, sending Jerry up closer.

  He slouched over to the bar and stood, unavoidably, a few feet from one of the girls grinding to the music. Her hands skimmed down her body and Jerry gawped up at her, along with the other enraptured men that clapped along.

  Jerry turned to look at Adam, a half-smile creeping across his face. That’s it, Jerry, thought Adam, settling back in his seat.

  When Jerry returned he drank more convincingly from the bottle of Bud he’d chosen for himself.

  “I guess it’s not so bad in here,” he laughed with a juvenile snort and Adam nodded along.

  “Look at the blonde on the end.” She jiggled to the beat. Jerry guffawed into his beer and took a hearty slug. He was getting into it. Leaning in he said, “M.E. could save my job, Adam. Hooking up with them last night has changed everything. I’d still like to know what Spink’s got up his sleeve, though. He’s obviously not dealing with Ed and Oona.”

  “Maybe his cronies aren’t in the right department.”

  “He seemed pretty confident yesterday.”

  “Dinky’s full of shit. Ignore him, you’ve got it, Jerry.” Adam chinked his bottle onto Jerry’s. “Another?” He was on his feet before Jerry could answer, and heading into the crush.

  “Two bottles of Bud and a Jack on ice,” he told the bartender. He’d needed to get away for a moment, to regroup. A shot of Jack would settle him down. Still at the bar, he took a slug and relished the burn that travelled down his gullet. It joined the churning acid in his gut, the only thing inside besides emptiness. It would be worth it. It was cruel and she’d be upset, but it was a kindness: the unbearable act. Then they could be together.

  Another slug to ease the constriction in his throat. All he had to do was discover them. Discover Jerry in the arms of another woman and feel compelled to tell Rachel. How could you, Jerry? And that would be it: the event so destructive that it would all just be over.

  The music changed and the crowd responded. A hen party squawked and bounced, drunk and sweaty at his side and Adam seized the opportunity, signalling Jerry to join him and bring the champagne.

  Jerry bit at his lip sidling through the crowd toward them, but Adam took the champagne from him before he had a chance to protest. “Ladies! Join us for a drink?” Their eyes were drawn by the bottle he proffered and the closest, a bouncy-haired blonde, gave Adam an appreciative smile. “Come on, girls! Champagne!” she crowed and the others crowded around.

  “Jerry—get some more glasses,” said Adam, turning his back and trapping him next to the bar. He heard him call the barman.

  “Out celebrating?” he enquired of the blonde.

  “Tia’s getting married.” She waved at a girl with long dark hair in a shocking pink veil who winked back.

  “No kidding. I’m Adam, this is Jerry. We’re celebrating too. Jerry here’s getting promoted.”

  By now Jerry had lined up some glasses on the bar. Adam thrust the bottle back into Jerry’s hand. “You pour, I’ll get some more.” He dove behind Jerry, leaving him now in the spotlight. He started pouring and the girls drew in, accepting their glass and bopping to the music.

  Adam tapped the beat out on Jerry’s shoulder from behind and Jerry’s head beg
an to nod along. “Enjoy yourself, you’ve earned it,” he called out and ordered two more bottles. This would be easy. Jerry was so pliable, so compliant. He would follow Adam’s lead.

  Adam topped up glasses and homed in on the bride to be—she was the least likely to want anything from him beside the champagne. “He’s shy,” he told her, “See if your friends can bring him out of his shell.”

  “He doesn’t stand a chance.” Tia knocked back her drink and putting her glass on the bar, took the dancing up a notch, encouraging her girls to join in. They were happy to dance around Jerry, shimmying up and down, daring each other to go further. Adam kept the drinks flowing. Increasingly drunk and lost in the music, Jerry was a willing pole substitute. He laughed and clapped, wiggled and bopped, utterly oblivious to his mercurial companion.

  Adam egged the girls on to try to embarrass him, but in no time he was way beyond that. Adam checked his watch: it was 10:30.

  FIFTY

  ADORA WAITED OUTSIDE. A slim built Latina, she arched against the wall, tight pink rhinestoned T-shirt stretched across inflated breasts. A short open denim waistcoat skimmed around the nipples that protruded through her thin cotton shirt. She snapped her gum.

  As Adam approached she looked him up and down, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of red lips.

  “Adora?”

  “Jerry?”

  “No.”

  “I thought it was too good to be true.” She touched his chest and ran a long fluorescent fingernail around a shirt button.