New World Fairy Tales

by Cassandra Parkin

Boring, boring, boring. Literally the only interesting or noteworthy thing that has happened to the Andersons is their son having sex, once, with Kate Miller. It’s like their lives were ordered from a catalogue.

  ‘Did they leave a forwarding address?’ I have no intention of driving anywhere but home, but she’s so nice, I don’t want to cut her off.

  ‘Why, not that I know of. I’m sorry.’ She really does looks sorry. ‘Besides, it was a few years back. They might have moved again.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘City folk, huh?’

  I roll my eyes along with her, even though I myself am a city rat, to the bone. Then I pay my bill and drag myself back to the car, and sit behind the wheel, and light a cigarette, and try not to scream in frustration.

  Outside the church a billboard reads, apocalyptically, The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son a thousand times. It reminds me why I’m hunting this man. How can he be blackmailing a Hollywood icon for access to their child? A man like this would instruct a lawyer. I stare again at that nice, thick black hair, those dark eyes, glancing warily around for danger where no danger can possibly exist, because who would bother to threaten someone so utterly, painfully bland? It is simply not natural to live a life as blamelessly tedious as Thomas Anderson. The sins of the fathers, indeed . . .

  And then it comes to me, creeping slyly up my spine and lodging in my brain. The Andersons, materialising from nowhere and vanishing back into the void. Their son, living a carefully rootless existence; a man who has every reason to call a lawyer and nothing to lose. Those eyes; that hair; a sudden escape from an un-named big city. It’s a long shot, but this case has been nothing but long shots from the start . . .

  My hands shake as I take out my cellular phone.

  I have just one person I can call, and even though he’s small fry in the organisation he belongs to, he’s still the most dangerous person I know. We met in Vegas, working opposite ends of a truly strange incident where a twenty-two-year-old Vegas rookie walked into the Rising Sun Casino, stayed a week, took north of fifty million on the roulette wheel, tipped a showgirl called Alabama twenty per cent and was never seen again. We found Alabama in Toronto, but never managed to turn up anything crooked. Eventually it was written off as one of those painful Vegas episodes, paying for itself in increased revenue from punters who thought next time it might be them. I’d had his number ever since, but had never needed help that badly.

  Not until now.

  ‘Ruth Boone.’ Mikey Ferracci’s charm drips out of the earpiece like poison. ‘How you doin’? And where you doin’ it?’

  ‘Silverwood Falls, Kansas,’ I croak. ‘Research.’

  ‘Research is always good. How can I help you with that?’

  This is what I remember from our last encounter. That frightening willingness to help. That insinuating desire to weave you into the network of favours.

  ‘I need to show you a photograph.’

  There’s a fractional pause.

  ‘Ho-kay,’ he says. ‘Your place or mine, baby?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘You flying in? I’ll send a car.’

  ‘There’s no need —’

  ‘Sure there is. Those taxi drivers, those Armenians, they’ll take you to the cleaners. A limo’s much more comfortable. Plus, the driver’ll know where to find me. I’ll send you a car to La Guardia. Really, I insist.’

  Those tendrils, you can’t escape them. A car. A death-trap. It all depends how you look at it.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No need for thanks. We’re partners, right?’

  And God help me, I suppose we are.

  The driver at La Guardia is groomed and polite, and far cleaner than I am. He takes my suitcase, crammed with dirty laundry, and holds the door for me. I wish the limousine came with a shower. I’ve flown in on the red-eye, but even if I wasn’t wired on coffee and fear, the air conditioning would keep me awake. We drive to a mid-town restaurant. My driver guides me down the steps, his hand in the small of my back like a respectful date.

  The man sitting on the other side of the white tablecloth, one hand on a red napkin, one hidden beneath the damask, is a complete stranger.

  The driver has to help me into the chair. He brings me a large brandy. I take a mouthful, and wish I had a cigarette.

  ‘Would you like to smoke?’ asks the stranger on the other side of the table. A lighted Marlboro appears at my shoulder. I inhale deeply and feel my hands grow steadier.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘I apologise for taking Mikey’s place,’ says the stranger, and smiles. He’s large and affable, like a favourite uncle. ‘Please, say you’ll forgive me.’

  ‘Of course.’ It’s grotesque, this pretence of manners when we both know what’s really going on here, but I feel compelled to keep up my end of the conversation. ‘I hope Mikey’s not in trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all, no trouble at all. He just happened to mention that a good — no, an excellent — PI he worked with once was in Silverwood Falls, Kansas, looking for someone. Which was interesting. Because you see, I was in Silverwood Falls myself, six years ago. And I also was looking for someone.’

  We regard each other over the tablecloth.

  I have to tread very carefully. I know now my long shot is right; the key to Kate’s freedom is within my grasp. I just need to get out alive with the answer.

  ‘Perhaps we can help each other,’ I say finally. His smile suggests I’ve just presented him with his first grandchild. Very carefully, I lay down the photo of the man I know as Thomas Anderson on the table between us.

  The man looks at the photograph. For a moment, Death himself sits opposite me at the table.

  ‘So,’ he says, and the avuncular mask is back in place. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I need two things,’ I say. ‘His name. And twenty-four hours.’

  ‘The name can be managed. The twenty-four hours . . .’ he sighs. ‘I’ve wanted to speak to this boy since he was ten years old. His father and I were once very good friends. You understand my dilemma.’

  I play my only card.

  ‘My client needs the first shot,’ I say. He frowns. They’re very careful, always, to use only the most innocuous language to outsiders. ‘I’m sorry, I mean she needs the first opportunity.’

  ‘Perhaps I could speak for your client also,’ he suggests delicately. ‘I’d be more than happy to . . . use my influence. As a favour to you.’

  ‘She needs to speak to him personally. It’s — a family matter. To do with her daughter.’

  This he seems to understand. I see him hesitating. ‘You can guarantee he’ll be available to me afterwards?’

  Now more than ever, I can’t lie.

  ‘No, sir, I can’t guarantee that.’ He looks amused, and raises an eyebrow; he won’t say the word, but the twitch of his index finger is enough. How can I say it without saying it? ‘Ah, what I mean, sir, is — we expect he’ll leave LA after meeting my client. I can’t guarantee he’ll go home . . . but I can give you his address.’ And, of course, his current name. An eye for an eye.

  He considers this for a long time. I watch the thoughts unspool behind his eyes. He’s thinking Thomas is messing up the future prospects of a starry-eyed Hollywood floweret, and her mother wants to frighten him into leaving her, badly and unheroically. He’s weighing up the value of sending the message, We never forget, against the value of an LA private investigator in his pocket. He’s considering his reputation, his reputation as a good family man. This is all projection. I’m way out of my league. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking.

  ‘Women,’ he says ruefully at last. I smile with him. ‘And she really won’t change her mind on this?’

  I spread my hands and shrug.

  His eyes, those deep, black eyes with their heavy lashes, look into mine, and I’m grateful th
at I’ve spoken nothing but truth since I came into this room. If I’d told one solitary, single lie he would see it in my face, for there is no doubt he is far, far stronger than me. Of course, truth and honesty are less closely related than many imagine.

  Then his right hand comes up from beneath the table, and reaches into his breast pocket. He removes a fat fountain pen, and gestures to the driver / bartender, who conjures paper from thin air. He writes two words, and folds the paper in half.

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ he says. ‘You can contact me via Mikey.’

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ I say, and he beams at me.

  ‘Ms Boone, I have absolute faith.’

  I’m on my knees in the bathroom at La Guardia, dry-heaving into the toilet bowl. I need to stop this, so I can book myself on the first flight back to LAX, then call the rental company and explain what their two-year-old Toyota Camry is doing at Topeka airport. I need to stop this so I can call Kate, and tell her to get Thomas Anderson on the phone and organise a meeting for the second I land, at the airport if necessary. I need to stop this, because I can’t convince her of the need for speed at all costs, because after this he’ll be gone, if I have to break off every few seconds to vomit. I need to stop this, but I can’t. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. From now on, even after I’ve delivered on my side of the bargain, I’ll be on their radar for the rest of my days, that favour I owe them hanging round my neck like an albatross, dragging me down.

  The cleaner taps on the door with mulberry gel-tip nails.

  ‘You okay, sista?’ she demands.

  ‘Doing just great, sista,’ I manage, and hunch over the toilet bowl again.

  It’s ten hours later, and a nice boy with dreadlocks meets me in Arrivals. It’s the second time in two days I’ve been met by a driver who looks and smells far cleaner than I do, but I’m too exhausted to be embarrassed. Kate waits in the limo, cool and beautiful in a white Armani suit and a silver blouse. She looks shocked when she sees me.

  ‘Ruth, are you all right?’

  ‘Fine. Did you get hold of Thomas?’

  ‘He’ll be at the Monkey’s Paw in an hour and a half — but why does it have to be tonight?’

  I check my watch. I’ve done this one hundred and ninety-six times since leaving that terrible room in New York. My terror is set on an infallible three-minute timer. Fourteen hours to go. If he’s on time, there’ll be twelve and a half hours left on the clock. Will it be enough?

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I say. Her perfume is maddening. She pours me a glass of champagne, which I refuse.

  ‘And you’ve really got . . .’ she glances warily at the driver.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  She kisses me quickly on the lips. I must taste vile; I try not to breathe out while she’s near me. I rest my head against the seat back and try to doze. Every three minutes, my inner time-demon prods me with his pitchfork and I lurch back into consciousness to check my watch again.

  Kate sweeps into the Monkey’s Paw like a star, her entourage dispersing around the bar. She’s a completely different woman from the harpie at the Observatory, or the lost soul who found me in her bedroom, or the siren who lay in my arms whispering wild encouragement as I drove both of us into oblivious frenzy. I remember, very, very belatedly, that she is an actress.

  Thomas sits at the bar, insignificant in the Hollywood light. I wish I could change what’s about to happen to him, but it’s too late now. Their conversation washes over me like rain. Like a dog, I can only process the tone, and the occasional word. Thomas demanding. My daughter. I need. Just once. Let me. Kate pretends to be frightened — too dangerous — if anyone — end of my — please — but I can hear it’s fake. I check my watch again. Three more minutes off the clock.

  ‘Ruth,’ says Kate gently, and I realise I’ve missed my cue.

  ‘Oh.’ I offer the slip of paper. It seems anti-climactic. For a second, Kate hesitates. ‘Here.’

  She passes it to Thomas. He opens it. I can’t breathe.

  The colour drains from his face. He shrinks and crumples in upon himself. I think he might actually disappear through the floor. I glance at Kate, to see if she’s feeling, as I do, the evil of what we’re doing. I wish I was tired enough to miss the glee in her eyes.

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ says Kate, her voice low and clear. ‘Never, ever contact me again.’ She sweeps out of the bar, hair flying, eyes flashing. It’s a magnificent exit. It’s my cue to follow her, but I have to do one thing first.

  ‘You need to run,’ I whisper. Thomas looks at me speechlessly. ‘They’ll be coming for you. At your apartment in Benton. You’ve got —’ I check my watch again —‘twelve hours and sixteen minutes before they know where you are.’ He’s a deer in the headlights, and I’m the driver of the forty-ton rig bearing down on him, nothing I can do except mouth sorry through the windshield. ‘That’s as long as I could buy for you. So, run. And never look back.’

  Back in the limo, Kate’s exuberant. She’s played the game and come out on top; her secret’s safe; she’s still the Queen of Hollywood, the mother of Brad King’s daughter. She kisses me, not caring about the entourage, but I’m limp and unresponsive.

  ‘Did you see that? He was completely broken . . .’ her laughter is the ugliest thing I’ve ever heard. ‘Oh, Ruth, you’re a witch. How did you do it? What did I give him?’

  I look at her for a long time, taking in the shape of the mouth I’ve tasted, the cheekbones I’ve caressed, the throat I’ve kissed. I want to hold onto the beauty, but I can’t. Once you’ve seen the beast beneath the skin, you can’t go back.

  ‘What was it?’ she repeats.

  Too many answers can drive you mad. I want to know what Thomas’s father did, who he sold out and what happened after. I want to know if Thomas will escape and keep living his non-life, or if the destiny that has stalked him since he was ten years old will finally find him at a lonely crossroads at midnight. I want to know if Brad King will discover his wife’s duplicity. I want to know why she went to bed with me, what it meant to her, and if she’d do it again if I asked her. But every PI has to know when to let go.

  ‘It was his real name,’ I tell her.

  She looks blank.

  ‘The Mob never forgets, Kate,’ I whisper, and close my eyes. Then I jerk awake again, and check my watch. I am more tired than I’ve ever been in my life, but I have to stay awake for another twelve hours and thirteen minutes. Before I can rest, I have to send a text to a mobile number and thus unleash the Furies upon Thomas Anderson, born Tony Androsciani, whose last known address is an apartment in Benton, Wisconsin.

  Interview #42

  — Rafael Delgado

  New York, NY

  I watched them say goodbye; saw into their souls you might say, the way I generally can. Two poor, lost boys, their whole lives bent out of shape by one spiteful woman with power. Just one good thing: of all the doors in the mean streets of this city of ours, Paul knocked on mine.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Snowy,’ said Paul. ‘I — I —’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  Paul looked at me.

  ‘Leave the kid his heart, at least,’ I said, and held the door open for him.

  Of course, that came later on, but I’m starting there, since that’s where I came in. This ain’t even my story, to be honest, not really. I just . . . watched from the sidelines, advising where necessary.

  But for some reason I can’t quite fathom, people always get distracted when they discover they’re talking to a dwarf who strips for a living.

  Bet that got your attention, right? Now you’re distracted, you want to hear about me instead. Tough luck, pal. Like I said, this is Jakey’s story I’m telling.

  So; beginnings. Everything has a price in this world, and some things come more expensive than others. About nineteen years ago — when I’d f
inally accepted I’d never be more’n four foot two and had found a way to live with that — there was a woman lived on Park Avenue. She was rich, talented, beautiful; but she wasn’t happy. She wanted a baby. Craved it, prayed for it, worked for it, did everything right. Never smoked, never drank. Saw the specialists; took the pills. Stuck herself with needles every day. Lay with fingers crossed and legs apart as some doc put four cells into a warm nest. (Meanwhile her husband, lucky bastard, merely had to jack off into a plastic cup and pass it to the nurse, and sign the cheques. Nice.)

  She went ten rounds of hope and heartbreak, never let the pain show. She would’ve gone longer — husband could certainly afford it — but the docs finally broke it to her that if none of them stuck after ten, it probably ain’t never gonna happen. She won’t give up; keeps hoping; keeps praying. Then out of the blue — a miracle.

  Comes a cold December day, her baby’s born. The price? Unfortunately, her death. Well, it happens.

  Beautiful baby, they say. I’ve seen the grown-up result; beautiful’s the word, damn straight. Blue eyes, black hair, porcelain skin, rosy mouth. Doting father did what parents of his class do — freakin’ baffles me, this — and sent him to a boarding school just as soon as he was old enough.

  Then got married again, just for good measure.

  Wife Number Two had even worse luck conceiving than Jakey’s mom. Makes you wonder who the weak link was really, don’t it? Naturally, she took against Jakey, the living reminder of Number One. Meanwhile, Jakey’s growing up . . .

  What — you wanna hear about me now? Yeah, that’s why you’ll never win the Pulitzer, pal. Always getting distracted by the minor characters.

  Okay, I’ll bite.

  I grew up —

  Ha. There’s the first one. If you want to survive this cold, bad world as a dwarf, you gotta grow a thick skin real fast. Oh, and pick what you’re gonna call yourself. That’s fundamental.

  Terminology’s tricky. Midget offends just about everybody, but how about the alternatives? Dwarf is strange, exotic, faerie, Hobbity; like we’re a separate species; make of that what you will. Little person is inclusive, but maybe dismissive, you know? Nothing but low and little . . . hey, you know how it is; hang around the theatre long enough, you absorb that stuff by osmosis. Person with dwarfism — ah, don’t even get me started.