How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  CHAPTER 19

  Reuben phoned Joe at six forty-five. ‘I’m sorry to let you down again, but this gastric bug’s come back.’

  He steeled himself for Joe’s outburst. It didn’t happen – just a noisy sigh like an elephant farting. ‘Boy, you’re not worth wasting my breath on. Just be here at seven am, sharp, tomorrow.’

  Reuben didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t been fired. It would be just like Joe not to fire him because he knew that was what Reuben was secretly hoping for. Not that he was going out of his way to be fired, but if he was, he wouldn’t be beating down the door begging for his job back.

  New Wave Productions was also in Spring Hill, a couple of blocks from Pizzazz, on the ground floor of a towering concrete and glass building. The receptionist’s generous smile matched her breasts. For once, both were real.

  ‘Mr Littlejohn?’ She studied the list. ‘Here you are, right at the bottom.’

  She pointed down the hallway. ‘First door on your left.’

  Reuben opened the door and reeled back in surprise. It was five to nine, but already the room was crowded. The chairs lined up against the walls were occupied, and the rest of the hopefuls were standing, some alone with their arms folded, others in pairs or groups. In the centre of the room was a long table on which stood two jugs of water, two towers of plastic cups and a huge platter of cream biscuits. Two youths, tanned and clear-eyed, biceps bulging out of their t-shirts, sat on the edge of the table; chatting, laughing and radiating self-confidence.

  ‘Come and join the party,’ said a man standing by himself near the biscuits. He picked up a Monte Carlo, shoved it in his mouth, and held out his hand.

  ‘Tom, but everyone calls me Thommo.’ Biscuit crumbs sprayed out from his mouth.

  Reuben, dodging the crumbs, shook his hand and introduced himself.

  ‘Your surname’s not James, by any chance?’ Thommo asked.

  Reuben returned his grin as if he hadn’t been asked that question a thousand times before. There’d been many occasions when he’d wished it was James – anything but Littlejohn.

  Thommo took another biscuit, a chocolate cream. He was of solid build, with a thatch of dark hair that flopped over his eyes. His facial features were too coarse for conventional good looks but in his jeans, boots and checked shirt, he exuded an air of beefy ruggedness.

  ‘I haven’t had any breakfast,’ he confided,’ and by the look of it, these will be lunch too.’

  Reuben looked around the room. Apparently the quintessential Aussie male was buff and tanned, t-shirt sculpted on to his chest and jeans so tight you could tell his religion. Thommo was one of the few who’d come from a different mould. Reuben had opted for his best black jeans and a polo t-shirt. He wished now that he hadn’t – it made him look like a Young Liberal member about to play golf. He sucked in his stomach.

  ‘Looks like there’s a lot of competition.’

  ‘Don’t worry, most of them are just pretty faces. You have to be able to look like you’re having fun, not like you’ve got your head stuck up your arse.’

  He patted his stomach, showing the beginnings of a paunch. ‘I thought they might want someone who looked like they actually drank beer and didn’t spend all day posing in front of the mirror at the gym.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Reuben said. ‘Have you been to many of these?’

  ‘Thousands. Beer, cat food, toilet rolls, I’ve even done one for tampons.’

  ‘Not to use them myself,’ he added, ‘I was to be the husband who wanted to sleep in while she bounded out of bed and went horse riding and water skiing, all because of her super slimline tampons.’

  ‘So, how many ads have you been in?’

  ‘Actually … none.’

  He scooped up another biscuit. ‘I’m an expert on auditions because I’ve been to so many. I’m thinking of writing a book – Auditioning for Dummies.’

  Reuben wondered how many of the others were novices. Some stared vacantly into the distance as if this were just another daily chore; others looked expectant or hopeful, then tried to look blasé if they caught someone’s eye. A few gazed around with an amused expression, as if they were there just for the fun of it, so they could impress their girlfriends or recount it to their mates at the pub. Three men standing in the corner laughed loudly at something one of them had said, glancing around to see if they were being noticed. They were overdoing it – obviously first-timers.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Reuben said, ‘but don’t you think you’d have to be successful in at least one audition to write it?’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Thommo said, spraying more biscuit crumbs down his shirt front. ‘It’s experience that matters. The more auditions you go to, the more experience you have. It’s as simple as that. For example, I can tell just by looking around the room who’s going to get the gig.’

  ‘Who?’

  Thommo wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘You, for example.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. They don’t want good looks.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘They want someone other guys can relate to, that they can see on the screen and say, “Yeah, that’s me.” So you have to be a bit better looking than average because the average guy always overestimates how attractive he is, but still be someone he can imagine having a drink with at the pub.’

  It was a tough call. Maybe he should walk out the front door right now.

  A door opened, revealing a tall, stick insect of a man in faded jeans and a torn-off t-shirt exposing a pale, hairless stomach. He was holding a clipboard.

  ‘Could I have your attention, gentlemen!’ he called out in a high voice. The hubbub stopped. ‘I’ll give you a quick rundown of what we want from you so you’ll be prepared when it’s your turn to audition. We’re doing an ad for a new boutique beer from Germany called Becker’s Beer. This is the scenario.’

  He looked down at his clipboard. A few took the opportunity to exchange amused glances. ‘You’re in the pub with your mates drinking Becker’s Beer when the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen walks in and sits at a table. Your mates egg you on to go and talk to her, so you pluck up the courage to go over and offer to buy her a drink. You go up to the bar and order two Beckers. When you bring them back, she’s not too happy but she drinks it anyway, and soon it’s obvious that you’re becoming increasingly attractive to her. By the time she’s finished her drink she’s gazing into your eyes and hanging off your every word. When you offer her a lift home, she says, “Let’s go back to your place.”’

  There were a few appreciative whistles and someone yelled, ‘Where can I get a carton?’ to a round of guffaws.

  The stick insect looked around the room like a teacher waiting for a classroom of unruly students to quieten down. ‘The slogan is “The World Looks Better with Beckers.”’ He consulted his clipboard again. ‘We have a lot of auditions to get through, so let’s get started. First is Mr Adam Johnston.’

  A man standing near the doorway, arms folded against his chest, stepped forward. He wore jeans and a singlet, his brawny arms a riot of tattoos. Perhaps too common a touch. The stick insect stood aside and motioned him through with an effeminate wave of his hand.

  ‘The industry’s full of them,’ Thommo said in a low voice. ‘Not that it worries me. I went to the gay Mardi Gras last year.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Reuben said. ‘Which float were you on?’

  He grinned. ‘Same one as you, mate.’

  Thommo took another biscuit from the platter and held it up to the light as if it were a glass of wine. ‘Kingston, my favourite. This is my last, I swear.’

  He launched into an account of his career, short on success for all the effort involved. From years of auditions for plays, commercials, films, drama school (he’d applied for the National Institute of Dramatic Art five times), all that had transpired was the odd bit of amateur theatre and a few gigs in crowd scenes as a movie extra.r />
  ‘The chicks love the whole struggling actor thing, think it’s so romantic and noble, but they soon get sick of it when the only dinner date you can afford is a barstool for two at the Greasy Diner. And after a while you get sick of sympathy fucks.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Reuben said, although he couldn’t at all. Wasn’t a sympathy fuck better than none at all?

  The stick insect reappeared at the door, looked down at his clipboard and called another name. Mr Tattoo hadn’t been in for very long; not a good sign. A man with burnt-brown skin and dreadlocks came forward.

  Thommo shook his head. ‘The surfie look is so yesterday.’

  An idea had been formulating in Reuben’s mind – had started off as an idle thought which he’d ignored at first as it seemed too ridiculous. But it had festered in his subconscious until it suddenly presented itself as a complete plan.

  ‘Feel like going for a beer when we’re finished here?’ Reuben said. He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. ‘Maybe coffee would be better.’

  ‘Let’s stick with the beer,’ said Thommo. ‘We’ll need it. How about The Crown, down the road?’

  The stick insect appeared again. ‘Thomas Leader!’

  ‘That’s me. I’ll wait for you in the public bar.’

  It was close to midday by the time Reuben was called in. The boardroom had emptied by half and the platter of biscuits was just a pile crumbs.

  ‘Reuben Littlejohn.’ The stick insect repeated his name. He looked up at Reuben. His eyes were a milky blue, almost translucent. ‘There’s a name to remember.’ He held out his hand. ‘Damian Blackbutt.’

  Reuben kept a straight face with a supreme effort of will. This could possibly be the only time in his life he was thankful for his own name. He shook Damian’s hand; it was moist and limp.

  In the audition room, a desk and swivel chair had been pushed against the far wall, exposing an expanse of plush blue carpet. Against the nearest wall to the door, a man with a bushy beard sat behind a camera on a tripod. A man sitting next to him got up.

  ‘Bruce Berkeley,’ he said, shaking Reuben’s hand.

  He was a taller, thinner version of Simon Broadbent, with the same smooth, polished finish, right down to his knife-edge pressed trousers and shiny shoes.

  He handed Reuben a sheet of paper. ‘Your lines.’

  There were three lines typed on it.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Two Beckers, please.’

  ‘So, can I give you a lift home?’

  ‘That’s it?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘Don’t be deceived – you might only have three lines but there’s a lot going on between them.’

  He gestured in the direction of the bushy-bearded man. ‘Mike here is going to film you, so do the best you can, we don’t have time to do a lot of takes. So we start off with you over there near the desk, having a drink with your mates. Damian will help you out by being one of your mates.’

  Reuben acted out the scene, from Damian egging him on in his high voice to talk to the ‘hot chick’ in the corner, to downing an imaginary beer while being drooled over by an invisible goddess. He felt awkward and self-conscious, and the whole scene was stilted.

  ‘Okay.’ Bruce’s expression gave nothing away, but there was no way he could have regarded Reuben’s performance as anything but crap. He looked at his watch. ‘One more take and that’s it. Let me just ask you, who in your opinion, is the most beautiful woman in the world?’

  ‘My parole officer’ would undoubtedly be dimly received. Reuben’s mind went blank and refused to come up with any women at all, beautiful or otherwise. On Bruce’s crisp, pale blue business shirt, the words ‘New Wave Productions’ were balanced on the crest of a large wave. Underneath was inscribed ‘B.B.’ in red. What sort of tosser had his initials inscribed on his shirt?

  ‘Brigitte Bardot,’ Reuben blurted out. A chortle came from behind the camera. Bruce’s face creased momentarily and Damian raised an eyebrow.

  ‘When she was young,’ Reuben added.

  ‘Right,’ Bruce said. ‘Imagine it’s Brigitte Bardot, when she was young, of course, sitting at the table. And try to forget the rest of us are here, you’re here to sell yourself.’

  Sell yourself. The words clicked into place in his mind, like the pieces of a puzzle. He’d been doing it all his life. To sell something to other people, you had to believe in it yourself. Each time he’d collected a bogus charity donation, sold a membership to a non-existent organisation, signed someone up to a fraudulent investment scheme, he’d immersed himself in the scenario beforehand, convinced himself it was real. It was all a matter of balance – to be convincing but not too pushy; warm and friendly but not too familiar; and to act as if it was okay if they weren’t interested in the product because you were enjoying their company. Add to that a touch of machismo for male customers and boyish bashfulness for females, and you had them in the palm of your hand. But it was all just a role-play. Like now.

  Reuben took his position near the desk next to Damian.

  ‘Take two!’ Bruce called.

  Reuben drew a deep breath. He was in the pub; he’d just spotted Lucy for the first time sitting alone. He remembered the first time he saw her at the parole office, how the world stopped and was about to tilt off its axis, and he was out of breath and speechless. Then sitting at her table, she was so close to him that he could feel the warmth of her skin. He was heady with the magic of her as she gazed into his eyes and he gazed back and he had to stop himself from reaching out and stroking her hair. And when she said ‘Let’s go back to your place’, her voice, husky with desire, sent a thrill through him right to his backbone and gave him a strange feeling in the back of his throat…

  ‘Cut!’ yelled Bruce.

  Reuben hurtled back to reality.

  ‘That was better, obviously Brigitte Bardot does it for you.’

  ‘Whatever floats your boat,’ Damian smirked.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ Bruce said with a dismissive handshake.

  ***

  By the time Reuben had walked the two blocks to the Crown Hotel, his stomach was growling. The Crown was one of the last old hotels in the city area that hadn’t been demolished or revamped. The shabby exterior gave way to an even shabbier, dingy interior with the musty smell peculiar to old buildings, as if the lives of all its past patrons were somehow entombed within its walls.

  Thommo was perched on a barstool in the public bar chatting to the barman and shoving peanuts into his mouth. The barman was as old and desiccated as the building itself. Thommo’s face shone with beer and good humour.

  ‘G’day mate! How did you go?’

  ‘Crap on the first take, better on the second. How about you?’

  Thommo’s face fell. ‘They let you do two takes?’

  ‘I’m sure that means nothing,’ said Reuben. ‘I don’t expect to hear back.’

  Thommo looked like a puppy that’d lost its ball.

  ‘Come on, let’s have lunch. My shout.’

  Thommo brightened up. They went into the lounge bar and looked at the menu. It was basic, befitting its surroundings. Meals were an optional extra; this was a pub for the serious business of drinking. They ordered pies, chips and peas and sat at a corner table. The only other customers were two whiskery old men in the opposite corner, prodding at their meals with shaky hands.

  ‘I’ve got a proposition for you,’ Reuben said.

  Thommo grinned. ‘Hey, I take that back about going to the Mardi Gras.’

  ‘A work proposition.’

  Thommo straightened up. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Are you free Tuesday next week at about three o’clock?’

  ‘Let me consult my diary.’

  He looked down at the table for a few seconds then looked up.

  ‘I believe I am.’

  ‘All you have to do is turn up at a car park in Chermside, and talk to a guy from Dan’s Detailing for about ten minutes.’

  ‘Is this fo
r TV or a movie?’

  ‘Neither. I just want his attention diverted for a while.’

  ‘How much?’

  Reuben thought quickly. Not too much to arouse suspicion but enough to seal the deal for an unemployed actor. ‘Three hundred dollars. Cash.’

  Thommo looked incredulous. ‘Three hundred dollars for ten minutes? What’s the catch? Do I have to dress up as a fairy?’

  ‘No catch, wear whatever you want – preferably not a fairy costume. And there’s not a lot of acting needed, you just have to be yourself.’

  ‘You realise that telling an actor to be himself could spin him into a major identity crisis?’

  The meals arrived, borne on a tray by a withered old woman with two veiny twigs for legs; she may well have been the barman’s wife. The pies floated like large flaky tankers on a sea of glutinous gravy next to an island of chunky chips, with the odd green pea bobbing up to the surface.

  ‘I hope these pies aren’t as old as everything else in here,’ Thommo said as he tucked in.

  He looked up, his chin adorned with pastry crumbs. ‘You’ve got my interest. But I’m curious. What’s the purpose of it?’

  Reuben chewed slowly as he gathered his thoughts. He couldn’t divulge the real purpose of the job, but he was taking a risk even going this far – a risk that Thommo would suspect something underhand and inform the police. But he didn’t seem the dobbing-in type, and there was nothing illegal in what he was asking Thommo to do. The main thing was making sure he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘I can’t tell you; you’ll have to trust me on this. All I can say is that it’s vitally important that you keep this guy in conversation for at least ten minutes, so it might be an idea to bone up on cars.’

  ‘Can’t you just give me a clue? Does it involve a woman?’

  Reuben hesitated. ‘It does, but not in the way you think. If I give you a clue, you have to promise not to breathe a word to anyone, not even your girlfriend; especially not your girlfriend.’

  Thommo held up his hand. ‘Scout’s honour. I won’t say anything to my girlfriend when I get one.’

  ‘I’m trying to prevent a crime from being committed.’