by Graham Smith
‘I’m paid to break them up.’ A raised eyebrow invites me to continue. ‘Some of the guys decide they want to fight me when I toss them out or refuse them entry. We fight, they lose. Life goes on.’
‘Your mother worries about the day when you pick a fight with someone you can’t beat.’
‘I don’t pick fights, Doc. I stop them. The last time I started a fight I was still at school.’
He looks at me over his notepad. ‘It’s only a matter of time before you get into a fight you can’t win or go too far.’
I can’t stop the laugh before it bursts free. ‘You make me sound like someone who goes out looking for trouble. I’ve put many a man into the emergency room, but none of them have ended up in the morgue. I put them down and that’s the end of it. If they’re stupid enough to get up and try again, I make sure they don’t get up so easily the next time.’
‘I see a suppressed anger within you, Jake, a rage which will lead you into trouble if you don’t control it. Tell me, has anyone ever attacked you with a weapon?’
‘No.’ I don’t even have to think about the answer.
‘I’m worried that if someone comes at you with a weapon you’ll either get badly hurt or will turn your aggressor’s weapon onto them.’ He pauses. ‘It’s your mother’s worry too.’
That’s a low blow, which hits me twice. The problem is he’s landed the punch on my weak spot. I know that if someone comes at me with a weapon, my blood will boil too hot for containment. It is my biggest worry. Regardless of who comes at me, I make sure that when my hands go up, they stay empty.
I’m not going to admit my fears to him though.
‘You have occasions where you drink yourself into a stupor for days at a time. If someone came at you with a weapon during one of these episodes, do you think you could protect yourself and remain in enough control to not do something stupid?’
I lick my lips to buy a second or two of thinking time. ‘It’s never happened yet. Or at least if it has, I’ve had enough presence of mind to dispose of the body.’
My flippancy sees his top lip curl for a fraction of a second. ‘That’s not exactly a healthy attitude, Jake. You’re more than clever enough to have thought of these scenarios yourself. What do you think would happen?’
I don’t answer him. He has me bang to rights with my deepest fear and there is no way I am prepared to share that with anyone. I haven’t even let Alfonse raise the subject when he gives me one of his lectures.
After every drinking binge I take, Alfonse will regale me with whatever offence I’ve caused or stupid act I’ve committed. Then he’ll lecture me about the consequences of a local hard man being unable to stand when old foes have grudges to settle.
Still, I know leaving this question unanswered will tell the doctor more than anything I do say.
‘I’ve cut right back on my drinking and it’s over a year since I had one of those episodes as you call them.’ I give a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be. The hangovers aren’t worth the high I get from the first few drinks.’
‘You do know your kind of addictive personality will only drive you on to greater episodes the longer you deny yourself?’
‘That’s why I’ve not had a drink for so long.’ My honesty surprises me. I hadn’t intended opening myself quite so wide.
He looks over his pad into my eyes. ‘Either never drink again, or learn to have one or two drinks once a week. These infrequent binges and the rage inside you will get you into trouble you can’t escape if you don’t.’
18
She’s using the treadmill as the Watcher lifts weights. From his position he can see the beads of sweat beginning to form on her exposed shoulders and the nicotine patch on her upper arm.
In a strange kind of synchronicity, he feels a trickle of sweat run from his forehead into his left eye. A blink clears it and he glances around the room so as not to be so obvious in his observation of his target.
Around the room are the usual suspects found in all public gyms. The elderly battling the effects of time twenty-five years too late, young bucks and does pushing themselves to the limit, as they hone their bodies into whatever sculpture fits their idea of perfection. A pair of morbidly obese guys are huffing and puffing their way towards heart failure or fitness.
One of the sculpted gym bunnies comes over to him and makes a comment or two about his physique.
He smiles, acknowledging her compliments and returns them with praise for her toned body. He can tell she’s into him and plays along a little for appearances’ sake, letting the handles of the weight machine rest against their stops and lowering sweaty hands onto his knees.
Her eyes drift to his left hand. They neither widen nor narrow when they land on the ring Melanie gave him. She talks some more and then departs towards the bank of rowing machines with a wave.
He watches her go, then scans the room for the target, finding her by the wall getting water from the cooler.
She mops her forehead with a towel and totters in the direction of an exercise bike.
While she’s making adjustments to the seat and fiddling with the resistance setting, he switches to a different position and resumes his workout. He feels a sense of gratitude towards her for using the gym he frequents every day.
There’s anything but pleasure on her face as she nestles onto the seat and begins the cyclic thrusts.
The untoned muscle on her legs is flapping as he observes her in more detail. Her face is lined with age and cigarettes. Despite the pumping music and sounds of people working out, he can hear the hungry rasp of her breathing.
Given the choice at her age, he’d forget about exercise and enjoy what little time is left before infirmity takes over.
Tonight will be her last on earth, her efforts at buying more time futile in the face of a scalpel in the wrong hands. His hands.
His plans were prepared long ago for whichever victims fell into the pattern; the method chosen at random from a number of available options.
Once identified, he couldn’t help but select the grandmother who lived alone. It is too easy an opportunity to pass up and he is ready to escalate and gauge the police response. Three murders in four days will give them something to think about.
Her walking into the gym as he worked out was unexpected but not a problem. He’d had no contact with her and his face is here more often than hers.
A yawn climbs his throat and he realises he hasn’t slept for almost thirty-six hours. Knowing he needs to be fresh for tonight, he leaves the others to their workouts and heads for the locker room. A high protein meal, a handful of prescribed drugs and an empty bed seem more attractive than ever.
19
After hearing the growl from my stomach, I delay meeting with Alfonse long enough to catch a burger and fries at Sherri’s Diner.
Tourists visiting the town marvel at its fifties charm and memorabilia. Locals hear their comments about how good a job the designer has done recreating the décor and smile to themselves. Sherri’s hasn’t been refurbished since 1954 and owes its well-preserved state to Sherri’s maxim: ‘It ain’t clean until you can see the face of the person stood behind you’.
Her daughter Terri took over in the mid-seventies and runs the diner with an iron fist wrapped around a gentle heart. Slacking employees and obtuse customers are evicted with a broom print on their ass, while a sob story will always see her reaching for the cash register.
The food is legendary in these parts and many of the higher-class restaurants have tried to lure her cooks away without success. The one time a cook accepted another position, Terri marched into the restaurant and berated the owners in front of a packed dining room.
I welcome the time alone with my thoughts, as I chew through the meat and starch from both my plate and the meeting with Dr Edwards.
His final comments are too informed for my liking, causing me to suspect Mother’s interference. Calling her on it will do nothing more than fuel her
concerns. What I want is to quell both her worries and meddling.
There is another suspicion which has plagued me for a while. Perhaps no one has lifted a weapon against me because they can all see I have the capability to take the weapon off them and use it myself.
Am I the only one blind to the dangers of the MacDonald blood?
There are also his suppositions about Kira to consider. The way he’s offered an opinion without questioning me about her family life makes me wonder if one of them is a client of his.
There are few psychologists in Casperton and if Mother is right and Dr Edwards is the best, it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility Kira’s mother or another family member is one of his patients. If she is, he’d have a window into Kira’s family dynamics showing him all the grievances and underlying issues. That would explain why he’d spoken with such confidence when offered so little information.
Eating with one hand, I use the other to switch my cell back on and check for messages.
There are two from Alfonse asking me to call him as soon as possible. The email account I’ve set up has two new messages. The first is from Google trying to entice me further into their net. The second is one of the nine threatening legal action if I don’t stop making unfounded allegations.
My Scottish dislike of the sue and counter-sue culture fills me with contempt for this particular lowlife. I scroll through my memory banks to recall his specific perversions. There’s an acidic burn of disgust in my gut when I recall his messages asking to be bound then used by Kira.
Sending him a short message, I instruct him to call me or I will knock on his door and ask his wife if she can answer my questions. Underneath the threat, I list a couple of the things he’d requested Kira to do. That should have him reaching for his phone.
When I look down at my half-finished meal, I realise my appetite has gone. I cover the uneaten food with a napkin and drop a few bills onto the table. It’s best I leave before Terri cross-examines me about my lack of completion. The last time I’d seen her find a half-eaten meal, one of her cooks lost his job and two waitresses had run out in tears. The guilty customer had received a lifetime ban despite being a regular patron.
I call Alfonse when I get back to my car and listen while he updates me on his progress. He’s had a productive morning despite most of his results being negative.
Six of the remaining seven have called to protest their innocence and offer alibis for the time Kira was alleged to have been killed. None had sounded anything but remorseful. All had been eager to clear their names and help us catch her killer.
Where he has made some headway is in identifying the tenth client, an actor from a once popular sitcom. He’s dug into the client’s life and has found out he’s in LA filming. Once again he isn’t the star, but his part is large enough to keep him in work.
Knowing the odds of getting someone as narcissistic as a famous actor to call us are small, Alfonse has booked me on the next flight to LAX.
He promises to forward the confirmation email and hangs up.
I have a half hour to go home, throw a few things together and get myself to the airport.
20
The heat outside LAX hits me like a wrecking ball; unlike the more temperate climate of Casperton, Californian sunshine blisters uncovered skin for kicks.
The rental car is hotter than a blast furnace, so I climb back out after starting the air-con and wait five minutes under the shade of a nearby tree until the temperature inside the car is bearable.
My GPS says the journey from LAX to Hollywood should take around a half hour but the LA traffic has other ideas. I creep fender to fender for two hours until I can turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
If I had an iota of local knowledge, I’m sure I’d be able to find an alternative route, but in this strange land of eternal sunshine I’m a slave to the GPS. I crawl past surplus marts, gas stations, a score or more of light industrial areas and various stores offering everything from mattresses to fruit.
I’m not sure what I’d expected of Hollywood, but this normal-looking area holds no special attraction for me.
Speeding up to a mighty ten miles an hour, I follow the GPS until it tells me I’ve reached my destination.
Alfonse has tracked down where the actor is staying and arranged for him to be interviewed by the showbiz reporter for The Scotsman – a paper my grandfather read from cover to cover with a religious fervour. It’s good thinking on his part, as my accent will fit the role he’s assumed for me.
The Sunset Plaza is quite unlike any other hotel I’ve encountered. Ten storeys high, it fills a whole block with a regimented white façade giving it the air of a prison. The fact each window has a small balcony enclosed by metal railings only adds to the prison effect.
I re-evaluate my opinions of the actor’s standing. If his studio bosses have lodged him here, it’s obvious he isn’t their prize asset.
With time to kill before my appointment, I take a walk along the street to get a feel for the area.
When I’m on Hollywood Boulevard the area feels more like I’d expected it to. Cinemas line the sidewalks above the famous stars, and most of the people on the streets are tourists trying to spot actors and actresses. Every minute or two a large car with blacked-out windows will elicit pointed fingers and wild guesses as to its occupants’ identities.
I find a diner where I drink a soda and munch a sandwich while I watch the world go by.
After ten minutes I feel the need to shower and it isn’t the diner or the Californian heat making me feel this way. It is the whole falseness of the area. Tourists are being heckled by ambitious touts attempting to sell them trinkets and behind-the-scenes tours. Yet nothing here is real, everything is an illusion.
Hollywood is a place that deals with, and lives in fantasy and escapism. Yet the magic has escaped the conjuror’s influence to permeate itself into the fabric of the buildings and streets. If you close your eyes and listen you can hear the broken dreams of wannabe actors, scriptwriters and directors screaming their angst at the injustice of it all.
It is no place for me and the sooner I’m back on a plane to Casperton the happier I’ll be.
21
I approach the reception desk of the Sunset Plaza, and ask which suite the actor occupies. The interior of the hotel is all muted tones and soft furnishings in an effort to dispel the prison-like exterior. It doesn’t work.
A receptionist with bleached hair and implants that cause her blouse to gape crinkles her nose when she hears me ask for the actor.
Whatever dreams she has about forging a career in acting are sure to be added to the millions of voices I’d heard screaming earlier. If she can’t hide distaste for one customer from another, she’ll never make it in this most critical of towns.
‘Mr Weeper is on the tenth floor in the Rose Suite.’ She points me towards the elevator with a fixed smile. Her eyes tell a different story, wishing me luck in my endeavour.
I join a group of chattering executives in the elevator. It’s all I can do not to punch any of them for their inane corporate language.
Alfonse knows the disregard I have for celebrity and TV, so he’s emailed a picture and a short biography of the actor to me so I’ll at least address the right person in the room.
Striding along the corridor, I find the door to the Rose Suite obscured by a muscle-bound bodyguard with thick arms and a wedding cake neck.
When I tell him my business he grunts and knocks on the door. ‘The dude from the press is here.’
A thin woman opens the door. She’s wearing stress like an overcoat. It doesn’t suit her. Her eyes are beady, an air of annoyance and mistrust hang over her, turning every movement or gesture of the hand that isn’t pressing a phone to her ear into sharp, animated flicks.
I smile and introduce myself, laying on as much charm as possible. ‘Jake Boulder, from The Scotsman. Thank you for arranging this interview with Mr Weeper – I’ve been a fan for years.’
By now I’ve entered the room far enough to see Weeper standing on the balcony looking down. His room faces the centre of the hotel and when I join him I can see a group of young women sunbathing by a pool.
Such is his arrogance he doesn’t bother looking round before he speaks. ‘I’d do them all with the same boner.’
I clear my throat and wait for the next pearl of wisdom. One sentence has just outlined why a famous actor has to use hookers. This guy is a prime example of what Glaswegians call a bawbag.
He turns, right hand reaching for the bottle of beer on the table. I take his hand in mine and shake it with a repeat of my earlier introduction.
He winces at my grip, unaware of the effort it has taken not to crush every bone in his hand. ‘Oh yeah. The reporter.’
He stands an even six foot, but his thinning hair, forgettable face and expanding waistline suggest his best days are behind him.
He looks around until his eyes land on the stress head. ‘Mindy, bring a couple of beers will ya?’
I pull out my phone and fiddle with it as if I’m using it as a Dictaphone.
Mindy deposits a beer in front of each of us. ‘I’m off to collect those scripts. Back soon.’
I wait until she is out of earshot and lean forward. ‘I’m nothing to do with The Scotsman. I’m here investigating the death of someone you hired from Fantasy Courtesans. Girl by the name of Candice.’
‘You can go fu –’
My fist colliding with his jaw finishes his sentence. ‘We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. It’s your choice.’
He launches his bottle towards my head, but I’ve stopped enough bar fights to know better than to get hit by a flying bottle. I hear it crash behind me as I step forward and give him a dig in the ribs.
This is getting out of hand far quicker than anticipated. I’m just glad Mindy is out of the way. I don’t hit women and her presence would have become a definite nuisance, although for her the stress of the fight may well be enough to finish the task working for Weeper has started.
