by Jeff Povey
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company’s products or services.
Copyright © 2006 by Jeff Povey
All rights reserved.
Warner Books
Time Warner Book Group
1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Visit our Web site at www.twbookmark.com.
First eBook Edition: June 2007
ISBN: 0-446-19659-2
Contents
PROLOGUE: CLUB SERIAL KILLER
DOUBLE DECAP
SUDDENLY
THE NON-PLAN PLAN
CAROLE LOMBARD
HI, BETTY
WELL EXECUTED
WILLIAM HOLDEN
APB: MISSING SERIAL KILLER
THE LIST
TALLULAH BANKHEAD
TETCHY TATTOOED TERROR
NEEDLE GUN
MURDER RAP
TENSE WITHOUT TALLULAH
RICHARD BURTON
LIBRARY OF LOVE
WADING IN
BITCHFORK
BURT LANCASTER
RECAP ON DECAP
HOLDING, NOT FOLDING
HEADLESS CHICKEN
CHER
DEAD RINGER
KENTUCKY-FRIED CHICAGO
IT LIVES
JAMES MASON
A SLIGHTLY SMALLER MEETING
SEX TIME
THE LAST LIST
COLD CHAMOMILE
SON OF SUDDENLY
KENTUCKY DEBUT
HOMO SAPIENS ALONE
CHUCK, NORRIS, MYRNA, LOY,
LOBSTER ON MY MIND
JETTY MINUS BETTY
BETSY GRABLE
FAMILY-SIZE MEAL
AMERICAN HERO
GERONIMO
EPILOGUE: FEDERAL AGENT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For Jules—
you are all I will know for truth.
On tue un homme, on est un assassin.
On tue des millions d’hommes, on est un conquérant.
On les tue tous, on est un dieu.
Kill a man, and you are an assassin.
Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror.
Kill everyone and you are a god.
—Jean Rostand 1894-1977
Pensées d’un biologiste (Thoughts of a biologist, 1939)
PROLOGUE: CLUB SERIAL KILLER
I guess it’s not every day you end up with a dead serial killer lying at your feet.
There I was, going about my life, when right out of the blue this lunatic is leaping out of the shadows, coming at me with a big knife, and screaming that he was going to cut my heart out. At the time I was working on a dockyard, tossing goods on and off ships, and was packing a lot more muscle than people—and serial killers—realized. I fought like a man possessed, and somehow or other he was the one who wound up with a knife sticking out of him. I guess I don’t know my own strength sometimes.
I can’t remember every last detail—we are talking four years ago—but after the shock had faded a little, I know I was intrigued enough to want to learn a little more about my would-be killer, and it seemed only natural to go through his wallet. What I found—apart from a few measly dollars—were news clippings detailing his killing career. He obviously liked the attention cutting people’s hearts out had granted him, because each clipping was immaculately folded and pressed into a see-through vinyl credit card holder so that if he wanted to, he could open his wallet at any given time and get a little buzz from reading about himself. He also had copies of boastful messages that he had sent to the media and had signed them all “Yours sincerely, Grandson-of-Barney.” I have to admit that this sent a big tingle down my spine. Grandson’s exploits had been reported on television—watched by millions, I imagine—and there I was, sharing quality time with the guy.
I figured out I would have been Grandson’s sixth victim, and I think it was this realization more than anything else that proved to be an epiphany in my life. Epiphany isn’t my word, by the way; I got it from federal agent Kennet Wade, this great guy I hooked up with for a time. I sort of felt privileged. I know that probably sounds crazy, but after a largely anonymous life it gave me a big rush to think I’d attracted the attention of such a notorious serial killer. To be singled out from God knows how many thousands was pretty awesome, and I think this was the true nature of my epiphany. The sheer euphoria of finally being noticed. I could have hugged Grandson there and then.
Not that I did, I hasten to add.
The last thing I found in Grandson’s wallet was a clipping from the “Lonely Hearts” section of the local newspaper. It was ringed heavily and read something like “GOB, We know you’re out there, so why not come in from the cold and share a pastry with us? Yours, Errol Flynn.”
I couldn’t believe it.
Why would Errol Flynn of all people want to write to a serial killer, and how could he do that when as far as I knew, he had been dead for close to fifty years?
I have to admit, I was intrigued. I mean, who wouldn’t be? Errol Flynn is one of the finest actors ever, and here he was posting messages to me. Not that he knew it was me, but in my book it was close enough.
I truly didn’t want to be investigated by the police for the killing of Grandson. Chances are, with the way my luck pans out sometimes, I would’ve been accused of murder and hanged on the spot. So after locking Grandson’s body in a trunk and stowing it aboard a South Africa-bound ship along with various other trunks belonging to a theatrical troupe, I sat back and monitored the papers for another message from Errol. But two weeks passed and there was nothing forthcoming. I couldn’t believe it; why didn’t Errol post another message? It started to get me down. I was so close to establishing what I felt would be a lasting friendship with the great man, and all of a sudden he clams up. But just as I was debating whether or not to send an angry letter to his fan club, it hit me—maybe Grandson hadn’t replied to the first message, and maybe, just maybe, Errol was still waiting to hear from him! I raced to the nearest library, grabbed all the backdated evening editions I could find, and scoured the personals column to see if Grandson-of-Barney had responded. There was nothing. My heart started pounding—I still remember that very clearly—and before I could help myself I’d posted a reply on GOB’s behalf: “Errol, I’d love a Danish, Barney’s Boy’s Boy.”
I spent the next ten days going out of my mind waiting for a response, when all of a sudden there it was in timeless black and white. “BBB, Do you like Chicago? Take a flight if you want to know more. Warmest Regards, Errol.”
Chicago? That was at least two thousand miles away, maybe more. I was devastated. What sort of person travels two thousand miles in the hope of making a new friend?
No one’s that lonely.
No one.
I can still remember the gorgeous woman I sat beside on the Chicago-bound flight; she must’ve been a film actress, although despite my repeated questioning she never actually came out and admitted to it. She was beautiful, though, easily the most stunning woman I had ever set eyes upon, and as I sat there telling her my life story, I knew that my luck had changed. Being in the presence of a creature this compelling was like a message from the Great Above; she was an angel guiding me along my path, and to this day I sincerely regret taking down her phone number wrong. The one she gave me turned out to be a fish factory on the outskirts of the city, and I guess in all the excitement I didn’t hear her right.
So there I was, all of four years ago, setting foot in the Windy City for the first time, not knowing where my life was going but kn
owing instinctively that something good was about to happen.
There was a message waiting in the personal ads as soon as I touched down: “GOB, The Club awaits you. Bring plenty beer money. As Ever, Errol F.”
I quickly posted another ad, just something like “I’m here, now what?” The reply I got threw me because this was from none other than Tony Curtis: “Gobby, Let’s meet, let’s eat. Tony Curtis.” I hadn’t been expecting someone else to be involved—let alone another movie star—and then remembered that there was mention of some club and couldn’t imagine what sort of club would let me—in the guise of a world-famous serial killer—join up. Then it dawned on me—this was some sort of police operation; they were trying to entice Grandson out into the open with promises of pastries and Hollywood celebrities, just waiting to pounce the moment he showed. I felt pretty pissed off, I can tell you. Two thousand miles for this?
But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed pretty crazy to lure Grandson all the way to Chicago, where, according to his news clippings, he hadn’t actually killed anyone and would therefore possibly be outside the Chicago Police Department’s jurisdiction. So maybe that wasn’t it after all.
I still couldn’t figure it, though. Why invite a killer to a club? I’d heard about women writing to, and then eventually marrying, serial killers while they sit out their days on death row, and I wondered if maybe some sort of fan club had sprung up to honor Grandson-of-Barney. Now wouldn’t that be something? I admit the idea excited me, and I kind of got carried away with it, thinking it might be fun to pose as this killer and maybe even find a future wife into the bargain. When you spend a lot of time on your own, you tend to find yourself grabbing at things without really thinking them through. And I guess I was up there grabbing with the best of them.
I posted another ad, Tony replied, and a coded small ads dialogue started up over the next month or so. I was still wary, though, trying to ask as many veiled questions as I could, and eventually discovered that there were not two but eighteen members of the Club, both male and female, which boosted me no end, and that they were very, very keen to meet me.
While this was happening, I managed to find myself some work at the city zoo of all places, cleaning out the cages and generally making the life of the imprisoned jungle cat that little bit more comfortable. This turned out to be the job I was born to do and would find hard to replace should I ever get fired—or mauled.
I also rented a small furnished apartment—a place where the landlord had taken it upon himself to bolt every piece of furniture to the floor—and started to settle into the Chicago way of life, which is pretty similar to any other type of life, only wetter.
The final ad the Club posted listed the name and address of a bar and grill that I should attend on the following Monday evening—Grillers Steak House. Everyone would be there, and I was guaranteed a fun night out or else Tony Curtis would personally pay any expenses I incurred. I like a money-back guarantee as much as the next person, and that helped swing it for me. Also, their presuming me to be a serial killer would make me a pretty formidable force if things weren’t entirely to my satisfaction.
Obviously I hadn’t the faintest idea as to what I was letting myself in for, but I had come this far and there was no turning back. Besides, if the Club didn’t meet with my expectations, then I’d never go back. Plain and simple.
I rented a suit for the occasion—a cotton three-piece, yellowy beige—which I rounded off with a red shirt and a dark blue tie. The guy at the rental company even complimented me on my stylish arrangement.
When the taxi dropped me off it was raining heavily, and even in the short walk to the bar and grill entrance the yellowy beige turned brown, so that by the time I got inside I knew I had a color clash on my hands.
Grillers was one of those all-wooden affairs—mahogany benches running along under windows, teak paneling covering every square centimeter of wall, a worn and unpolished floor, maybe room enough for eighty diners, a large bar in the middle of the restaurant, again made from wood—it was like they’d used half the rain forest to build the place. Framed prints of English castles were nailed to the walls, the lighting was low, a little country and western music drifted from a jukebox over the heads of the few diners who were in that night.
As I stood in the doorway, peering into this wooden maw and clutching a soggy copy of the evening edition—my identifying sign—a shout went up, a big bearlike voice grabbed my attention, and as I turned to a far corner of Grillers I saw them for the first time, all eighteen of them, sitting there like an office party spilling out of control. All their faces were turned toward me, and I suddenly realized that this was it, the moment of truth. I had taken the precaution of memorizing everything I could from Grandson’s clippings and hoped I’d be confident enough to pass myself off as him. I was lucky that there had been a television documentary on him (no pictures of Grandson, thank God, apart from a blurred closed-circuit TV image that could just as easily have been a Sasquatch wearing dungarees) two weeks earlier, and this television psychiatrist had given a quite brilliant profile of him—“a rodent-loving vegetarian who works irregular hours.”
The owner of the bearlike voice stood up, waved a thick slab of hand, and clicked his fingers loudly, his large body rippling underneath his tight white short-sleeved shirt. “Over here. We saved you a place.”
I looked down at my hand, the hand that was holding the evening edition, and saw that I was trembling. I quickly dumped the paper onto the nearest vacant table and shoved my hands deep inside my trouser pockets. I didn’t want anyone seeing that I was nervous. After taking an almighty breath, I straightened my back, stood as tall as I could, and walked toward the Club members. In my head I went over and over all the stuff I had learned about Grandson. Hates lowlifes, likes vegetables . . .
“Nice suit.” I still remember someone saying that as I passed, nodding and smiling to the faces that looked up at me. I think it must have been Chuck Norris, but I couldn’t say for sure.
The big guy who waved me over offered his hand to shake as he belched into my face. “I’m Tony.” I offered my trembling hand and watched it disappear inside his huge fist, and as I stood there, my arm being pumped furiously, all I could think was that Tony Curtis had ballooned to enormous proportions and lost all his looks into the bargain. I could feel everyone staring at me, weighing me up, and again I tried to stand as straight and as tall as I could.
“I’m, uh—”
“Uh-uh—no names. Not real ones.”
“Oh. . . .”
Tony waved his huge arm at the others sitting there. “You ain’t gonna remember none of this, but from the left that’s Cher, Burt Lancaster, Roger Moore, Rock Hudson, Richard Burton, Tallulah Bankhead, Chuck Norris, James Mason, Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Raquel Welch, Errol Flynn, William Holden, Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart, Stan Laurel, and Laurence Olivier. Hoo boy, didn’t think I’d remember all that.”
Some said hi, some just nodded; all looked pleased to see me, though. I could sense the anticipation hanging in the air. And I remember scanning the excited faces and being just a tad dismayed that the female element of the group was by and large not the kind of woman I had seen myself settling down and having children with.
“Hi. . . .” I nodded to the Club, smiling. “Glad to have made it.”
Tony slapped me hard on the back. “Welcome to the Club, Gob.”
“That short for Goblin?”
A woman said this, but I couldn’t see which one, and a few people laughed, which made me relax a little. It already looked like being the fun night Tony had promised.
A big, powerful-looking black guy—Tony called him Stan Laurel—pushed out a seat, and it dragged along the wooden floor. Stan winked at me. “Come and sit here, little guy. You want me to get you a cushion so you can reach the table?”
Laughter erupted again, and I found myself laughing along with them. I remember theatrically slapping my thigh as I took a seat beside the
hilarious Stan.
“You wanna high chair instead?”
Tony banged the table, brought things to order.
“I’m gonna let you know a few things about us first, Gob, but after that the stage is all yours.” Tony sat down, swiping a lump of bread from a plate belonging to the woman he called Cher.
Despite the huge grin spreading inside me, I tried my best to look earnest and attentive as Tony spoke.
“For the uninitiated—which is you, Gob—this little Club of ours has been going some three years now. And we’ve got Rock and Roger to thank for that.”
Tony glanced over to Rock and Roger, two handsome blond men clad in black turtlenecks. I wondered if they were twins as a small ripple of applause ran the length of the table. I was starting to relax, enjoying the overriding feeling of goodwill emanating from everyone present. I even found myself clapping along with them.
“Thanks,” said Roger.
“Thank you,” said Rock.
Roger and Rock took the applause like old pros, and I immediately sensed that I was going to like these guys a lot.
“If they hadn’t broken into some student’s pad—without realizing they had both selected the exact same victim on the exact same night—then all of this might never have happened.”
I remember the word victim banging like the Liberty Bell against my forehead, and my whole head seemed to arc back, recoiling from the blow. I sat there, hoping that someone was going to correct Tony and make him say the word he really meant to say.
No one said a thing.
“Anyways, as they both stood there, rooted to the spot, the dumb-ass student woke up, raised the alarm, and the next thing Rock and Roger are escaping together. Rock’s rental car had a flat, and Roger tells him to jump in his sedan and they drive clean across the state line.”
