Carrion

by Gary Brandner

Fain put down his spoon. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me I’m going on as a replacement for the zoo lady?”

  “You’re in the second spot, right after Don Rickles.”

  “Oh, great. People are tuning in to see this month’s cuddly animal, and there I am sitting on the couch next to a put-down comic.”

  “Mac, the exposure is unbeatable. Johnny will mention the book, and that means another twenty-thousand in sales.”

  “I won’t do it,” Fain said.

  “Mac, you don’t say no to Johnny Carson.”

  “Then say I’ve got an attack of the gout. Say it’s a religious holiday for me. I don’t care. When I do his show, I want my own spot, not substitute for a koala bear.”

  Echols sighed. He took out his notebook and wrote something.

  “Okay. So what do you think about doing Michael Jackson Friday?”

  Frowning, Fain looked up from his eggs. “Radio?”

  “It’s nework, Mac. ABC, coast to coast.”

  “But radio? We don’t need that, do we?”

  “Henry Kissinger has done it. Gerald Ford. Leonard Nimoy.”

  “Politicians and actors,” Mac said. “I’ll bet each of them was plugging a book.”

  “Remember, you’ve got a book to plug, too.”

  Fain laid down his fork. “Warner, you know that book is going to sell. We don’t need some radio talk guy with a fruity accent to hype it. TV, now, that’s something else. You go back to Carson’s people and tell them I can’t make it on such short notice. I guarantee you they’ll find a spot for me where I can be first string and where I don’t have to worry about zingers from Don Rickles.”

  “I can try,” Echols said.

  “You can do better than that. David Letterman picked up five Nielsen points when I did his show last week. Merv Griffin’s packager added half a dozen markets after I did him. Carson’s people can read the numbers.”

  “So that’s a no to Michael Jackson?”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay.” Echols jotted something else in the notebook. “Can we take a meeting here with Universal at one o’clock?”

  “I thought we were dealing with M-G-M.”

  “We are, but Universal has a counteroffer that gives us more points.”

  “To hell with points, Warner. I’m not going to play games with studio accountants. Get it up front or forget it.”

  “We’ll put it to them that way at the meeting, okay?”

  “Make it two o’clock. I’ve got Jesse Cadoret and a barber coming in at one.”

  Echols gave him a long look. “Two o’clock, then.”

  Victoria Clifford came out onto the balcony, wearing one towel and drying her hair with another.

  “The plumbing in this place is primitive,” she said. “Fourteen bathrooms and not one shower works decently.”

  “Can you get somebody on that, Warner?” Fain said.

  “I’ll see about it.” Echols turned and started away.

  “Oh, and Warner, I’ll want to look at some letters from the public this afternoon.”

  “You’re not thinking of doing another, uh …”

  “Resurrection?” Fain supplied. “Not right away. They take a lot out of me. But eventually I’ll want to get back at it, and I want to have a feel for my prospective clients. Pick out twenty or thirty of the best, will you?”

  Echols made another note and left without further conversation.

  Victoria stood behind Fain and massaged his neck as he ate. She said, “I wish this place had a pool. I’d really like a swim.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Fain said. “You’re company picked it out.”

  “I don’t know if I want to go on working for F-A. I mean, what if they assigned me to somebody else?”

  “They’re not going to do that.”

  “Maybe not, but they could. I don’t have any feeling of security. How would it be if I came to work for you, Mac?”

  He stopped eating long enough to turn and look at her. “Work for me? As what?”

  “Secretary. Girl Friday. Whatever you want. I’d do the same as I’m doing now, only I wouldn’t have to answer to anybody but you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

  A boy came in with a carafe of fresh coffee. Fain poured himself a cup and drank. He did not offer any to Victoria.

  The rest of his morning had been set aside for interviews with people who felt they and McAllister Fain could be of mutual benefit. He received them in a small office with Warner Echols and one of Nolan Dix’s young legal assistants present.

  The first was a fast-talking promoter from San Francisco who somehow managed to slip by the F-A screeners. He wanted to market a McAllister Fain T-shirt with a Jesus Christ tie-in. Instant rejection.

  A cable-TV representative pitched a live ninety-minute special during which Fain would bring some deserving souls back to life. The young attorney had doubts, but Fain told the man to get back to him with a detailed presentation. It would have to be in good taste, he said. No stand-up comics, no rock groups, a minimum of glitter.

  A well-known personal manager wanted to handle endorsements for Fain. He claimed to have commitments from Dewar’s, Brut, Botany 500, and a new line of Adidas.

  “Running shoes?” said Fain. “I wouldn’t run from here to the corner.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said the personal manager. “It’s the name that counts. Do you think Bill Cosby really eats Jell-O?”

  Warner Echols cleared his throat. “Uh, Mac, I’m not sure endorsing products it the way to go at this stage. We’ve got to consider the dignity factor.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Fain said reluctantly. “But I kind of like the sound of the Dewar’s.”

  “I’ll have a case brought in,” Echols said quickly, and the personal manager was dismissed.

  A representative from CBS was there to feel him out about doing a 60 Minutes segment.

  “Which one of the people would do it?” Fain asked.

  “Mike Wallace.”

  “Not a chance. Morley Safer or Diane Whatsername, maybe. Mike Wallace, no way.”

  He agreed to lend his name to a campaign fighting multiple sclerosis.

  He turned down an opportunity to join the fight against AIDS.

  A popular national evangelist made an emotional appeal to Fain to appear with him in a giant revival meeting in the L.A. Coliseum. Fain politely declined, saying he did not want to endorse any religion.

  At one o’clock he cut off the interviews and went upstairs for image enhancement by the barber under the direction of Jesse Cadoret.

  Victoria stood by, watching, much to the annoyance of Jesse. She said, “You’re not going to cut it real short, are you? It would look nice blow-dried.”

  “We are not trying to create an anchorman here,” Jesse said icily. “We want to present an image of dignity, credibility, and humility in the presence of grandeur.”

  “Jesus,” Victoria said under her breath.

  “Now you’re getting the idea,” said Jesse.

  • • •

  In the Alhambra home of the Ledo family another haircut was getting an inspection. Nine-year-old Miguel sat in the living room, staring sullenly past his father, who stood with his arms folded. So intense was the family meeting that the conversation was held in Spanish despite the resolve of the parents to speak only English when Miguel was present.

  “I can’t believe what you’re telling me,” Alberto said to his wife.

  Maria Ledo stood behind her husband, chewing nervously on a thumbnail as the two of them faced their son.

  “I would like to hear it from you,” Alberto said to the boy. “Did you take the barber’s scissors and try to cut him?”

  Miguel shrugged and rubbed at the stain on his jeans.

  “You answer me when I talk to you.”

  The boy looked off at a corner of the ceiling.

  “I haven’t used my belt on you in a long time
,” his father said, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”

  He started working at his buckle. Maria stepped forward and took his arm.

  “Please, Berto.”

  “I won’t have a son of mine behving like an animal.”

  “He said the barber hurt him first.”

  “Mr. Gomez has been cutting hair since I was a little boy and my parents took me to his shop. He does not hurt children.”

  “Maybe we should take Miguel to the doctor.”

  “I’ve had enough of doctors. They charge you a lot of money and do nothing.”

  Maria put a hand on her husband’s wrist, staying him from pulling the belt free. “Please, Berto.”

  He relaxed slowly and rebuckled the belt. To the boy he said, “You go to your room. We will talk about this later.”

  Moving without haste, the boy rose and sauntered out of the room.

  “And take a bath,” the father said. “You smell like a stale burrito.”

  The parents stood where they were until they heard the sound of the boy’s bedroom door closing.

  “He isn’t himself,” Maria said. “He has been like a different person ever since last night.”

  “He is being spoiled,” said Alberto. “Children take advantage whenever they can.”

  “We should take him to the doctor.”

  “For what? The last one could find nothing wrong with him. A good strapping is what he needs.”

  “No, Berto, he is acting strange. Not like our little boy. He gets into fights. The neighborhood children do not want to play with him. Not even Juan Ramirez. Not since the knife business.”

  “You can’t blame Juan for that,” said Alberto.

  “And in school he is not doing his lessons. He makes trouble in the class. Now this business with Mr. Gomez.”

  Alberto dropped wearily into a chair. He ran a hand through his coarse black hair. “What should we do, Maria?”

  “I think a doctor is best,” she said. “Maybe not a medical doctor; maybe one for the mind.”

  “You think my son is crazy?”

  “No, Berto, no. I think he needs help.”

  “You read too many magazines. We’ll talk about it later.”

  • • •

  On the asphalt surface of a playground in the Willowbrook district of Inglewood a spirited two-on-two basketball game was in progress. One of the players was Kevin Jackson.

  The doctor had cautioned Kevin about strenuous activity until his physical condition was thoroughly checked, but he was not about to give up the game. Not even for a little while. Basketball had occupied most of his waking hours since he was old enough to hold the ball.

  He fired a twelve-foot jumper, a shot he used to make with his eyes closed. His shot. It clanged off the back rim into the hands of Porky Edwards. Porky passed out to Nero Krutcher, who faked Kevin once and went in for the easy layup.

  Elray Dickenson, who was teamed with Kevin, stood with hands on his skinny hips and stared at his partner.

  “Sheeit, man, what the fuck’s the matter with you? You can’t hit shit.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, man,” Kevin said. “I’m a little off is all.”

  “Little off? Man, you playin’ like a faggot.”

  “Shut your mouth, motherfucker. I’ll rip your heart out.”

  The other three boys stared at him.

  Porky Edwards finally said, “Man, we gonna play, we gonna jiveass around?”

  “Fuck you, motherfuckers,” Kevin said. “I don’t need this shit.” He dropkicked the ball against the chain-link fence and strode out and away down Manchester Boulevard.

  The boys looked after him.

  “What’s his story, man?” Nero Krutcher said.

  “He never pulled no shit like this before,” Porky said.

  Elray Dickenson looked thoughtfully after the departed Kevin. “Something ain’t right with him. Something happen when he have that heart attack and that dude bring him back to life. He ain’t s’posed to be here. He’s s’posed to be dead.”

  “Weird,” said Porky.

  “Let’s play horse,” Nero said, retrieving the ball.

  Chapter 22

  The editor shook two antacid mints out of the bottle, tossed them into his mouth, and chewed solemnly. He was a dark-browed man with hollow cheeks and a sour outlook on life. The placard on his desk read: Phillip Yardeen, Managing Editor.

  “No,” he said.

  Dean Gooch planted both hands on the desk and leaned over it toward the other man. “I want this one, Phil. Something’s going on. I know it is. I can smell it.”

  “No.”

  “Damn it, are we running a newspaper here or what?”

  “This is not The Front Page, so stop doing Hildy Johnson.”

  Gooch straightened up. “Listen to me, Phil, just listen. Okay?”

  Yardeen leaned back with a long-suffering expression and folded his hands across his stomach.

  “This McAllister Fain is becoming the biggest celebrity in the country since Elvis Presley. And why? Because he raises people from the dead. Just think about that a minute. Let it sink in.” Gooch repeated it slowly, emphasizing each word. “He raises people from the dead. Now look me in the eye and tell me that is not a load of bullshit. Tell me you really believe people can die and come back.”

  Yardeen belched into his fist. “Dean, what I believe or don’t believe matters not a damn. A lot of people think he’s on the level. We had Elliot Kruger’s wife, which could have been a freak happening, but then there was the little Mexican kid, and it happened again. Now the whole country has seen the videotape of McAllister Fain reviving a boy who the doctors pronounced dead. Millions of people read an interview the man gave immediately afterward in the nation’s newspapers. The Times, I am embarrassed to say, was not one of those newspapers.”

  “That’s a dig at me, isn’t it?”

  “You were covering the story, I believe.”

  “Phil, the man’s a fraud. He’s a charlatan. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s faking. Have you seen what he’s doing now? He’s preparing a grand cross-country tour on which he will pause here and there long enough to make corpses walk. He’s not only a fraud; he’s dangerous.”

  “Just a minute. Weren’t you telling me a minute ago how this was a load of bullshit? Now you’re starting to sound like a believer.”

  The columnist’s eyes flickered away for a moment. “To tell the truth, Phil, I’m not sure what to believe anymore. But I’m as certain as I’m standing here that somebody has to sit on this man or he’ll do real damage.”

  “Are you sure your nose isn’t out of joint because he refused to talk to you?”

  “No, damn it. I’ve got enough other reasons to worry about the guy.”

  “Let’s hear one.”

  “How about that Dr. Maylon who did the dry dive out of Leanne Kruger’s bedroom window?”

  “Accidental death,” Yardeen said. “That’s what the coroner found, and that’s what we reported.”

  “I know,” Gooch said, “and I know the pressures that were brought to bear on that case. All I want you to do is assign me to McAllister Fain. I was a damn good investigative reporter before I started doing the column. I still can be if you’ll put me on this.”

  “Dean,” the editor said with exaggerated patience, “you already did a column on Fain, remember?”

  “That was just kidding around.”

  “Uh-huh. We’re still getting flak on that. McAllister Fain is not a man we want to kid around about.”

  “Are you telling me he’s now on the untouchable list?”

  “There is no such list.”

  “Come off it, Phil. We all know who they are — people who can do no wrong in the public prints. Billy Graham, Coretta King, Robert Redford, Lech Walesa, John Paul the Second. Sammy Davis, Jr., used to be on it until he hugged Richard Nixon.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” said Yardeen.

  �
�I’ve got one more suggestion,” said Gooch. “What if I take some of my vacation time and work the story on my own?”

  “I couldn’t stop you, but you’ve got no guarantee the Times will print anything you come back with.”

  “You’ll print it, all right.”

  The editor belched again. “When do you want to start?”

  “Right now.”

  “Okay, Dean, you’re on vacation and on your own.”

  The columnist grinned at his editor and hurried out of the office.

  • • •

  The streets around Elliot Kruger’s mansion were quiet again after the flurry of excitement over the thawing and revival of his wife. While their name still popped up in stories about McAllister Fain, the focus had shifted to the man himself.

  Dean Gooch eased his Thunderbird slowly by the gated entrance and saw that a security man was still on the job there. It was not likely the guard would admit a reporter, so he would have to find another way in. The prospect started the adrenaline flowing for the columnist as it had not since his early days in the business.

  He parked up the street in a spot where he could watch the entrance and put his mind to work on a plan to get him in. The problem was solved for him when a van with Bel Air Pharmacy tastefully lettered on the door pulled to the curb across the street.

  A young man got out carrying a package. He checked the label and looked up at the Krugers’ gate. When he started toward it, Gooch climbed out of his car and hurried across to intercept the boy.

  “Just a minute,” he said.

  The delivery boy turned with a question in his eyes.

  Gooch gestured at the package. “Are you taking that to the Kruger house?”

  The boy looked down at the piece of paper. “Yeah. Delivery from Bel Air Pharmacy.”

  “I’ll take it in for you.”

  The boy started to protest.

  “It’s all right.” Gooch dug out his wallet and flapped it open to his honorary sheriff’s badge that he carried next to his official-looking Times ID card. “FBI,” he said.

  The boy looked at the badge and card without reading them. Nobody ever read them. Gooch clapped the wallet shut.

  “What’s going on?” asked the boy.

  “FBI security matter,” Gooch said, unsmiling. “I’ll take the delivery in for you.”