The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  Shot#11. Cab#1 pulls up outside Clarkesville Hilton. Quimara Tann leaves cab and pays driver through window.

  Shot#12. Cab#2 is pulled up on opposite side of street, where the actors waste no time springing into action, the action being mainly an argument about which of them should pay the fare.

  “I haven’t got any cash, Como—besides, I paid for the Ferris wheel. And the candy floss.”

  “Make your frigging minds up, I can’t stop here all night,” chipped in the cabby.

  Como reluctantly pulled a note from his wallet, and we waited while the driver rooted through old newspapers to find a pen to write a receipt, rather spoiling the tension of the moment.

  After Como had recorded the expense in his logbook and stowed the receipt in his wallet, we crossed the street to the hotel.

  “What d’you say to that, Writer?” asked Como, nodding at a car in one of the VIP parking slots.

  It was a dingy grey Rolls Royce with the registration EB1. Wow!

  In the hotel, Quimara Tann had disappeared. We wandered through the public areas, checking the bars and the restaurants—Como even made me check the ladies’ restroom, where the appearance of a male intruder with pink blobs in his hair caused a degree of consternation among the toilet goers. Drawing a blank, we went to reception, where Como flashed his badge. Before we could ask a question, the receptionist said:

  “You’ll be wanting Chief McGee? He’s in Meeting Room Five, second floor.”

  LESSON FORTY-FIVE

  ‘Herbert, what is the purpose of literature?’

  ‘The purpose of literature, Marco, is to entertain, to educate, and to provoke thought and emotion.’

  ‘What about making money, Herbert?’

  ‘Money is a secondary consideration for the truly great author, Marco. You must write for yourself, not for the market. If others like your work, so be it.’

  ‘But what if they don’t like it, Herbert?’

  ‘If it is truly great literature, it will be appreciated in time. Remember Moby Dick, Marco. In its day it was a flop, but now it is recognized as a classic.’

  ‘Should I make sure my book includes a whale, then, Herbert?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  In which, thankfully, Marco decides it’s nearly time for the big ending.

  We took the backstairs to the second floor and followed signs for the conference suites. Meeting Room 5 was to the left of a communal area where a selection of enticing refreshments had been laid out for conference participants. We stuffed our pockets with muffins and settled down to watch from behind a corner.

  About three muffins into our wait, Quimara Tann left the meeting room and walked to the elevator, checking her reflection on the polished surface of its control panel. About five muffins after that, out came Elijah Bow and Chief McGee. Bow looked angry, McGee placatory. They stood by the elevator; as its doors opened, Bow said, “Just make sure you sort it.”

  We waited for the elevator to go, then sauntered over to the meeting room. Como edged open the door to look inside. The room was empty. Well, not empty exactly—what I meant was there was nobody else in it. Obviously, it wouldn’t be empty—what idiot would imagine a police chief and a billionaire would call their accomplice to a meeting in an entirely empty room? ‘Mister Bow would like to book Meeting Room 5 for this evening, and can you please ensure all the furniture’s removed beforehand.’ I’ve never heard such nonsense. Anyway, where were we...

  The room was a small one, with a central table and six chairs. Pencils and pads of paper, all proudly bearing the Hilton logo, had been placed by each of the chairs to allow their occupants to doodle absently. I was wondering whether the mention of the Hilton logo might lead to some kind of placement deal—room discounts, or free upgrades perhaps—when Como drew my attention to one of the pads, the top sheet of which bore the imprint of words written with a heavy hand on a sheet above it. I shook my head in disbelief—how could he have indulged in such an obvious cliché? Never mind—I’d just have to make the most of it.

  “Can you make out what it says?”

  Como held the pad at an angle to the light. “Not here—we’ll have to take it back to HQ. C’mon.”

  Como told me to put the pad in my satchel, and we headed downstairs. I wondered what we might find on the pad, and, more urgently, where we’d left our cars. Thankfully I hadn’t written anything about how we’d travelled to the amusement park, so I was able to say:

  “Gosh, Como, it was a coincidence that we tracked Tann to the Hilton, since you’d left your car right next door earlier this afternoon.”

  “Did I?”

  A bit implausible, perhaps, but it would save another argument about cab fares.

  Como drove us to police HQ, where we went to his desk. No, make that his room, as we needed privacy. Como latched his door behind us and pulled down the blinds. From one of the deeper drawers in his desk he pulled some specialist dusting gear from between the empty bourbon bottles.

  “Okay, let’s see what we got.”

  He angled his lamp to shine obliquely on the pad and brushed some fine dust onto the surface of the paper.

  Like magic, patterns appeared. Round the edge of the sheet were childish doodles with a police theme—handcuffs, a barred cell, nightsticks, guns, bullets, a police car shaped like a Lamborghini—but near the center a single sentence was written in capitals.

  GET SUSHING TO TRACE THE EMAIL.

  And for those of you who are having trouble keeping up, clearly ‘the email’ means the one we’d sent to Herbert’s address, pretending to have evidence about his innocence.

  “Sushing?” Como looked at me as if the appearance of the name was my fault, which I suppose it was. “He’s the big shot you saw in Nassau? Looks like he’s the one spying on Quarry’s email, which would fit the trace we got to a site in the Caribbean.”

  “But…but…”

  “But what?”

  But I had no idea what to write next. I remembered Herbert’s advice and typed at random, having first taken a sneaky look at Wikipedia…

  “But strictly speaking, Nassau isn’t in the Caribbean—it’s off the coastal shelf in the Atlantic proper.”

  “Writer, no one’s done anything on a strictly speaking basis since Page One, so don’t let a little thing like that bother you.”

  “But Sushing told me all about Marcia and showed me her paintings of Herbert. Why would he do that if he was part of the conspiracy?”

  “That’s the difference between true crime and fiction, Writer. In true crime there are always things that don’t make sense.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “You can do what the frig you like. I’m going home to eat. Wanna come along?”

  I didn’t have anything else to do, and I thought the book could do with a scene where the crime fighting duo do some male bonding, so I said I’d go along. Twenty minutes later we were at Como’s place—a nice, ordinary house in a nice, ordinary suburban area where nice, ordinary people lived nice, ordinary lives, the kind of place where I’d always wanted to live when I was growing up in a rough part of the Bronx. Como unlocked the door and showed me to the living room.

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll get some beers.”

  I flopped on Como’s settee and flicked through the channels on his small, old-fashioned TV. The quality of the picture was atrocious, so I switched it off. Como came in wearing an apron, with beers and nuts on a tray.

  “Dig in. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  We clinked glasses.

  “Nice place.”

  “Ain’t so bad. I don’t get to spend much time here. You any good at cooking?”

  I told Como my Bronx mom was the cook in the family.

  “Well you can help anyhow. Bring that through.”

  I took my beer into the kitchen, where Como looked through his stores to see what ingredients he could throw together for an impromptu feas
t. When the ingredients turned out to be a yellowing cauliflower, a tin of tuna, a moldy pack of bacon and some peanut butter, Como took off his apron and said let’s go to Mario’s.

  Mario’s was a popular pizza place in a rough-looking part of town. There was a line of people waiting for seats, but Como strode past them to be greeted by the doormen, who seemed delighted to see him.

  “Hey, Como, how’ve you been? Sorry, bud,” he looked my way. “You gotta join the line there.”

  “He’s with me,” said Como.

  “Sure thing, Como. In you go, fellas.”

  Eating pizza, we bonded over a typical alpha-male conversation, an eclectic exploration of girlfriends (mainly Como’s, sadly), grooming products, fashion, names for babies, celebrities we fancied, our mums, this year’s colors, weight control, favorite cocktails, best locations for honeymoons, and music. Como was a big jazz fan.

  “That’s a definite plus of being single. Since my girlfriend moved out, I can let rip with the vibraphone any time I like.”

  “What about the neighbors?”

  “They moved out a week after the girlfriend.”

  We argued about our top fifty lists of great vibraphonists, and the relative merits of the five- and six-mallet style, before Como said:

  “How about you—what music gets Ocram’s heels tappin’?”

  “I’m getting into razz.”

  “Razz? I ain’t never heard of it.”

  “No, I invented it myself.” Two sentences ago, I didn’t add. “It’s a fusion of jazz and rap. I’m sure it’ll catch on once it gets on YouTube.”

  “Jazz and rap? Shit, that sounds good. You made any razz videos?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been too busy with my writing.”

  “That’s what we’ll do when this crazy case is cracked, Writer—a weekend of razz. Yeah, I’m really up for it.” Como started to play air vibraphone, hunching his shoulders and screwing his eyes tight shut as he got into some imaginary groove. The other diners looked on as if concerned for his mental health. “Doo be dah dah daah, deee bop a daah daah doohbey. Gimme five!”

  I slapped Como’s massive hand, mine barely covering his palm. He gulped his last slice of pizza. “We could get some video up. I always wanted to be famous. You finished, or shall we get some more?”

  “Honest, Como—I couldn’t eat another slice. Let me get these.”

  Como didn’t argue, for once, so I went to pay for our meal. Mario, the proprietor, said his card machine was on strike. I had no money, so he took me to the door and pointed me at an ATM down the street. Como was chatting with a couple of girls at the table next to ours, so I decided to leave him to it and went to get some cash on my own. I’d hardly walked a hundred yards before I regretted my impulsiveness—the street had an edgy, menacing feel I hadn’t noticed when I’d promenaded down it with Como by my side. I felt as if predatory eyes were upon me as I withdrew a hundred bucks and furtively stuffed them in my back pocket, instinctively folding the notes to make them appear a smaller prize for a would-be mugger. As I walked back to the pizza place, my hood raised and my head lowered to avoid attention, a group of men ambled towards me from across the street—heavyset types whose garb and accessories were straight out of a props cupboard labelled ‘thugs.’ I gave my hundred bucks an extra fold and my head an extra droop, aiming to avoid all eye contact. My concern for my cash was misplaced, however—the thugs had other interests, as their leader’s next words showed:

  “Hey, look here, boys. Guess what I’ve found. Our snooper friend.”

  There were ten of them. They looked drunk. I was too scared to describe them, so you’ll have to imagine them—typical skanky types found in every similar scene you’ve seen on TV. The leader strolled toward me with a smug look that became more venomous with every step.

  “We warned, you, Snooper. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

  I backed away, my flight-or-flight instinct kicking in. The other guys fell in behind the lead thug. I didn’t have time to check, but I think they were carrying the usual writer-basher gear—baseball bats, lengths of three-by-two with nails sticking out, tire irons, bicycle chains, leather belts coiled around knuckles, flick-knives, and at least one vicious-looking handbag.

  I felt vulnerable and afraid. Where was my Bronx mom when I needed her? The head thug started prodding me on the chest.

  “What have you got to say for yourself, Snooper?”

  It was a good question. I thought of a warning along the lines of I used to be a boxer, but I didn’t think it would have sufficient effect. I was about to fall to my knees and beg, when a deep, angry voice said:

  “Hey, what the fuck?”

  It was Como, striding toward us with an outraged glare. Sensing menace, the thugs closed into three ranks behind their leader—two directly behind him, three behind them, and four on the back row.

  “He’s been helping that pedo,” said the leader, presuming to win Como’s support for his cause.

  I expected Como to flash his badge with instructions to disperse, but he seemed to favor a more direct and pragmatic approach to law enforcement. His timing was perfect. He extended the fist of foe-ship into the face of the lead thug. The lead thug slammed over backwards, taking out the two guys behind him, who took out the three guys behind them, who took out their pals on the back row. Full strike!

  “Good thing you came along Como. I might have got myself into trouble for assault if he’d needled me one more time.”

  Como ignored my shadowboxing and went through pockets looking for ID. At least four of the thugs had pass cards for a meat-packing plant on the edge of town.

  “See the logo?” said Como, passing one of the cards to me. It showed the brand of the meat-packing business with the tagline A Division of EBI.

  “What about it?”

  “EBI. Ring any bells?”

  I listened. The night air was utterly bell-less. Como replied to my blank look.

  “Elijah Bow Industries.”

  Elijah Bow Industries!

  I hoped the readers were imagining me to be near a wall, because at Como’s words I slumped against one, unable to face the implications of yet another nonsensical plot twist.

  “You okay, Writer?”

  “Sorry, Como, I was just struggling to cope with all these new developments.”

  “You’re struggling? How about me? All you have to do is make it up—I’m the one who has his head in a noose if I don’t solve this crazy case. And speaking of heads in nooses, how are we going to explain what happened to Father Kellogg? How are we going to explain the Delgado twins both being on TV, and the stuffed bodies and all the other batshit stuff you’ve written?”

  I looked at Como’s face, a face I now knew better than my own, a face that radiated the same perplexity and frustration I felt myself at all the ludicrous red herrings I’d written. I knew I wasn’t meant to think about my writing, but I had to get it under control for both our sakes. At least Jackson Pollock had a canvass to bound his efforts—there was only so much space to fill with paint. Writing was different—there could be no end to it. For an awful moment, I imagined myself and Como doomed to pursue the eternally spreading branches of an ever more ludicrous plot. The horrific vision made my knees give way—I slid down the wall and sat on the filthy sidewalk, mentally spent. Enough was enough. The lunacy had to stop.

  I reached out my hand to Como—he took it and pulled me upright. I wiped the dirt of the street off the seat of my trousers, metaphorically signifying that I was sweeping aside the trivial loose ends of my story. I checked my watch. There were twenty-two hours to kill before the big dénouement. I couldn’t face writing any more padding, so I pressed my mental fast-forward button. Skipping quickly through the walk back to Como’s, my crashing out on his settee, an unappetizing breakfast with no superfood infusions, a long call from my Bronx mom, two hours wishing I wasn’t listening to Como playing his vibraphone, lunch, a snooze, a trip to th
e dress-hire store, a change of clothes, the drive to Clarkesville Marina, the long argument with Como about which of us was to pay at the car park, and the boat out to the island, I returned to normal speed just as I found myself standing to officiate at the grand dinner.

  LESSON FORTY-SIX

  ‘Tell me, Herbert, what should a writer do when he has his readers on the ropes?’

  ‘He should sock it to them mercilessly, Marco.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  In which revelation leads to reversal.

  Ting ting ting ting ting ting ting. I tapped a glass until I had the complete attention of my chattering guests. Smoothing the tails of my clawhammer dinner jacket, I glanced at the expectant faces around the table as I waited for the next thing to come into my head. There were the McGees—Chief McGee confident and relaxed, his nephew Scoobie less so—Herbert’s spurned lover Marcia, her face beautiful yet brittle, Bow and Sushing, two billionaires at ease in each other’s company, Marge Downberry, the kindly ex head of midwifery, and Quimara Tann, the social climber reveling in the glamorous setting of the faux baronial dining hall, her excited eyes reflecting the flames from the huge granite fireplace, over which was hung a splendid painting of a mighty stag beset by hounds—presumably the hotel’s famous Pollock.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. I trust you are looking forward to the dinner I have arranged to celebrate the launch of my forthcoming book. As is customary on such occasions, the host is obliged to say a few words, but I promise you will not be detained long.”

  Not by me, that is.

  “You might be wondering why I invited you to my modest celebration. The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is that you have all, in some way, helped me discover the truth about the Herbert Quarry affair.

  “It is three weeks since the Clarkesville County Police found Herbert Quarry kneeling in a pool of blood by the dismembered body of a young girl. Three weeks since Herbert was arrested and taken to the Clarkesville County Penitentiary to await trial for the murder of Lola Kellogg. Three weeks, ladies and gentlemen, since he was framed.”