by Ed Gorman
I went out and came back a few minutes later and when she woke up—stoned as shit—she said in this groggy voice, "What're you doin?"
And I said, "You'll see."
And what I was doing, of course, there with my small bowl of hot water and bar of Dove soap and clean, nubby washcloth and clean, nubby towel—what I was doing was giving her a sponge bath, cleaning up that sweet little face and sweet little breasts and that sweet little Midwestern pussy of hers.
And when I was finished—I do believe that at this exact moment she had slipped back into a state of unconsciousness—when I was finished, I slipped my finger inside her and started trying to get her wet.
By the time I was on top of her and inside, her eyes were open and she said, "Wow! You're Cobey!"
And I grinned, and then we really wailed on that sweet little Midwestern snatch of hers.
And the rest of the next twelve hours sort of went the same way. There were one or two other street chicks in and out (or, rather, I was in and out of them) and I was doing fine, but then early afternoon somebody had a bottle of wine and
That's how it started. I remember the first drink and the feeling that I had this stuff whipped now. That drinking would never control me again, etc., etc., etc., all the standard bullshit rationalizations for falling off the wagon again.
...and suddenly it's night and I'm back in the bedroom with this other street chick when I suddenly realize that Mindy is in the bed too and we're both doing up this chickie and—
And my dick goes dead. Like somebody pulled the plug or something. No more Mr. Erection.
Which happens not with drugs (for some reason) but happens all the time with booze (for some reason).
So I more or less get dressed and wander out into the living room where (somehow) the '60's party is going strong and now we're hearing the mandatory Beatles and the mandatory Stones.
And one of the gay guys says something I can't quite hear and I give him a little shove (and don't tell me I'm homophobic because so many people think I'm gay that I identify with gay anger and gay pride and all those things—true facts—and no this guy was just a bleeping asshole is why I shoved him).
And I know it's starting now.
All that effing rage.
And the gay guy's boyfriend shoves me right back.
And then all of a sudden I'm in the kitchen and everybody's standing around me and Mindy's there and she's daubing at my forehead with a washcloth that she keeps dipping into this bowl of warm water.
And I hear her say, "I don't think there's a concussion. He just got knocked out is all."
And people keep peering down into my face (as if I'm seeing them through one of those distorting fish-eye lenses) and staring into my eyes and looking real concerned.
And saying, "Well, I'm sorry I pushed him, Mindy, but he had no reason to shove Jace that way."
And saying, "I knew as soon as I saw him drinking that he'd turn asshole on us. He always does."
And saying, "Give him a ride somewhere. We were having a nice time before he came."
And—
And—
And—
Sometime around ten o'clock that night, I woke up in the back booth of this little bar just off the bad end of Sunset.
I felt my forehead. There was a bump and a scab right in the middle of it. My white shirt had blood all over it, which is why, I guessed, I'd decided to keep my red James Dean jacket zipped up to the top.
And across from me in the booth was a small, nervous, ferrety girl. I had no idea who she was.
"You know where we are?"
"Huh-uh," I said.
"You know who I am?"
"Huh-uh."
She smiled with bad teeth. "I didn't figure you would."
I had just become aware of how loud the effing band up on stage was. I looked to my left and saw all these couples out on a dance floor, every sort of person you could want, from punks with rooster haircuts the color of cotton candy to one or two tight-ass yuppies in suit jackets.
The place was crazed. Deafening music. People shouting above it to be heard. The air filled with the smells of booze, drugs, cigarettes.
"I let you come in my mouth," the girl said. She was Keokuk, Iowa or Jasper, Wyoming. Had to be with those grubby hippie clothes ten years out of date and that scared, hungry look in her eyes. "I never let nobody do that before."
"Then I guess I should say thank you."
"My sister said she knew a girl who choked on this guy's come once. Choked to death."
We had our heads tilted together in the middle of the booth's table so we could hear.
"You said you'd let me stay with you," she said.
"I did, huh?"
"I figured you was lying."
I grinned. "I was."
"You fucker." And all of a sudden she started crying.
And when I reached across the booth and put my hand on her shoulder, she lashed out and slapped me very hard across the face and then she jumped up and was gone.
Vanished.
And then I was outside and stumbling along Sunset. Gritty as the air was, it was better than the air inside that disco.
All the hangover downs were with me: dehydration, shakes, terrible gnawing fear that I'd done something horrible I was purposely forgetting. (Cut a throat? Suck a dick? Fuck some eight-year-old daughter of some groupie mom, at the mom's request, the way another teen idol had once done?)
Then it started to rain and all the geeks and freaks along the Strip started looking for shelter. I wondered where my car was. I wondered how I'd gotten here. I wondered how much cash I had on me.
And then I saw Wade Preston's big-ass bronze Caddy convertible parked out in front of this once-fashionable restaurant and I knew just how I'd relieve myself of my frenzy and weariness and nightmares.
While good old Wade was inside packing away the steak—Wade being one of those guys who thinks all the warnings about cholesterol are bullshit—while Wade was in there, I'd slip into his back seat and take a nap.
And when he woke me up, he could give me a ride to my place. What's a manager for, anyway?
It took me two minutes to jimmy the lock and thirty seconds to fall asleep.
"You cocksucker."
"It's business, Jerry. If you were in my position, you'd do the same thing."
"Wonder how all those kiddies out there in TV land would like it if they knew that Wade Preston was a fucking blackmailer?"
"Wonder how all the ladies out there in movie land would like to know that their favorite leading man likes to gobble the knob every chance he gets?"
"You're scum, Wade. You're fucking scum."
"Call it what you want to, Jerry. I never would have put that private detective on you if you hadn't tried to nullify your contract with my agency."
Deep night. Caddy hurtling along beside the ocean. I can smell the water through the open window.
Apparently, when I went to sleep, I fell down between the seats and Wade didn't notice me.
Neck hurt. Had to piss bad. Megaton headache.
"I'm leaving your agency anyway, Wade. Pictures or no pictures."
I knew who was speaking. Wade's only super-big client. Jerry Parker. flunky leading man just now making his way into father-figure roles, the graying hair helping instead of hurting him.
Big guy, Jerry. Bad temper, too. And Wade was obviously pushing it, Jerry being the kind of guy who would feed you a knuckle sandwich any time the itch took him.
Wade said, "Then leave the agency, Jerry. But you know the price. Several magazines and several newspapers get some photos of you and your new boyfriend in some very undignified poses."
"You fucker." Jerry said.
And then silence.
And then night air.
And then moonshine.
And then the tide rolling in.
As the Caddy barrel-assed along a narrow road above the ocean. Rough road—smooth road—rough road. Tires humming. "So which is it going
to be?" Wade said.
Car rolled to a stop. Jerry got out. Interior light went on. Apparently he was so engrossed in his rage that he still didn't notice me.
"You've got me, Wade, and you know it. But someday—" And with that, he slammed the door.
Interior light went off.
Retreating footsteps.
Wade: "Faggot."
And then the car was rolling again.
And then I coughed.
Brakes slammed on.
Wade came up over the back of the seat with this big, silver-plated Magnum in his hand. Pointed it straight down at me. "What the hell're you doing back there?"
"Wade, I—"
But he didn't give me a chance to talk.
He hit me on the side of the head with the barrel of the Magnum and he said, "If you ever repeat what you heard, you bastard, I'll fucking kill you with my own hands, you understand?"
I understood...
As I said, this happened several years ago. Wade must've gotten some pretty good shots of old Jerry because Jerry just signed a multi-million dollar, three-pie deal with Paramount... and guess who the agent was? None other than good old Wade Preston.
And I, of course, have used my secret knowledge on Wade every time he's tried to put the screws to me.
Cut him off, he says to Lilly.
And when Lilly tells me this, I just step into a phone booth a la Superman and call Wade and remind him of that little ride I took in the back seat of the Caddy that long-ago Malibu midnight...
And I get what I want.
But has Wade finally tired of me?
Is it Wade who cut off Beth's head and put it in her refrigerator?
God knows, he hates me enough to do it...
Chapter Eight
1
Wade Preston's yacht was ostentatious even by the standards of the other big, white sailing ships lining the harbor.
Puckett reached it just after lunchtime. Everybody in the area was quietly celebrating the fine, warm, spring day—women in bikinis and tank tops; shirtless men in jeans rolled up to the knees; and one beautiful, yipping, Border Collie who kept jumping eagerly between the deck of his master's boat and the dock.
Preston was dressed formally in white shirt, blue double-breasted jacket and white ducks. He obviously enjoyed the role of the ship's captain.
"Care for a little liquid refreshment, Mr. Puckett? I'm about to have a gin and tonic."
"Not right now. Thanks."
Preston shot him a matinee idol grin. "A man of decorum and propriety. I'm impressed." He nodded to the cabin and below deck. "Be right back."
While he waited, Puckett looked over Lake Michigan. He'd grown up reading Jack London's South Sea tales and he'd long dreamed of a life at sea. Then he spoiled the dream by spending a whiskied week in a Fiji island bar while outside it poured cold and ceaseless rain. No wonder the place had such a high suicide rate.
"Why don't we go sit down?" Preston said when he returned with his drink.
They took deck chairs. As they were seating themselves, a red motorboat flashed by towing a voluptuous blonde in a string bikini. The boat blatted its horn. The blonde smiled and waved with the fetching self-importance of a beauty contest winner.
"I just got a call from Lilly," Preston said. "She said both of us should be expecting to see you. Cobey being wanted by the police, I mean, and you being a detective and all."
"She say anything else?"
"Oh, nothing earth-shaking. Just that you were a dumb, goddamn asshole and nosy, motherfucking, arrogant prick."
"I knew she liked me."
Preston laughed. "Some people in Hollywood consider it a badge of honor to be hated by Lilly Carlyle. I have the goddamn luck to be in love with her."
Preston had switched tones from ironic to melancholy right there at the last, and he'd startled Puckett.
"It's true," Preston said. "I'm not just emoting the way some actors do because they like to hear themselves talk. I actually love her." He sipped his drink and looked out at the blonde on the water skis coming round again. "I've been after her to marry me for twenty years now and she's turned me down every time I propose. Isn't that the shits?"
He had some more gin and tonic and when he brought his glass down Puckett realized that the man was quietly drunk. "How about Cobey?"
"What about Cobey?" Preston said, sounding guarded now. "Well, I'm told that Lilly has spent most of her time with him these past twenty years or so."
Preston smiled. "You're fishing, aren't you, Puckett? And you've picked a good place to do it—off a yacht, I mean. You want to know if I decapitated that girl to blame it on Cobey, don't you? I mean, I guess it's no secret that I hate that little fairy."
"Fairy?"
"Oh, not homosexual, exactly. But not very manly, either."
Puckett couldn't resist. "Weren't you a disc jockey in Buffalo, New York before you became a movie cowboy?"
"So I was, Puckett. But even back in Buffalo, I had two cast iron balls I could call my own."
Puckett had no trouble believing that.
The water skier now had a friend, a dark-haired friend who was, if anything, even more outlandishly voluptuous than the blonde.
The speedboat blatted its horn again.
The women waved.
Preston gave them a tight, hip little salute.
"Goddamned AIDS, anyway," Preston said.
"AIDS?"
"Hell, yes, AIDS. In the old days, I would've had those two on board this yacht so fast you wouldn't have believed it. And I'd have screwed their brains out, too, one right after the other." He sat back in his chair. There was a real melancholy about him now. "I'm not boasting, either. No cock-of-the-walk bullshit, I mean. I'm telling the truth."
"I'm sure you are. But what about your undying love for Lilly?"
"Don't mock me, Puckett. I hate being mocked. The truth is, I do feel undying love for Lilly, but since she has never accepted any of my marriage proposals, I've never felt any great obligation to be faithful."
The soft afternoon air smelled of sunlight and water. Nearby, the two water skiers were laughing. They sounded as innocent and exultant as little girls.
Puckett said, "How about Cobey?"
"How about Cobey what?"
"Do you think he could have killed the Swallows woman?"
"Hell, yes, I do. Lilly probably told you he isn't capable of something like this, but... Did she tell you about the time he killed my dog?"
Puckett shook his head.
"It was a couple of years ago. Lilly had been indulging him, as usual, ever since he got out of the asylum. He was into the agency for well over two hundred thousand dollars—he had to live in Malibu, he had to have a Maserati, he just knew he'd have a new series in no time, all the bullshit you hear from people on the way down—and one day I just said enough is enough. No more toys, no more loans for Cobey Daniels.
"I told Lilly that he should go find a regular, nine-to-five job, unthinkable as the idea sounded. There was a PR firm looking for somebody at that time, and Cobey would have been perfect. Shit, the kid was twenty-six, and he hadn't worked steadily in over five years. Anything he had coming from Family Life syndication money he'd already borrowed against—from us and two or three banks.
"Anyway, Cobey found out that I'd cut him off—he'd forced Lilly into telling him—and next day my Irish Setter, a goddamn dog I loved like a son and I'm not just being corny—next day I find Prince dead out in my back yard. Somebody had shot him with a high-powered rifle from up in the hills to the west of my place."
"And you think it was Cobey?"
"Who the hell else would it have been? Lilly?" He scowled. "Of course it was. Cobey."
"Did the police investigate?"
"Yeah, for what it was worth. They didn't find out dick."
"Did you confront Cobey?"
"I tried, but you know how Lilly is about him." Preston frowned. "She never had any children, Lilly didn't, and I know she probably
doesn't strike you as a Betty Crocker kind of woman, but I think she's got this need to mother somebody. And that was Cobey. She took him in when he was a little kid and virtually became his mother. But I'm sure you know that story. Anyway, no way would Lilly let me give that little fairy what I should have. I had to make a choice—Lilly or Cobey. And I chose Lilly."
A yacht went by. A white-haired man, who looked not unlike Wade Preston, waved. Preston waved back. "I grew up around here. Oak Park. That's why I keep a yacht here. Like to see all my old friends." The matinee-idol grin again. "It's fun to play the role of movie star to the locals."
Puckett looked out on the blue water. A yacht would be nice. Just himself and Anne. Going nowhere slowly and loving the hell out of it.
"Cobey disappeared for several months," Puckett said, bringing his attention back to Preston.
"Yes, I remember. Lilly was a lot of fun to be around while he was gone—as you can imagine."
"Do you have any idea where he might have been all those months?"
"Sorry, Puckett, I don't. Seems to me he just couldn't face the fact that, like most child stars, he'd run out of time and out of luck. He was a has-been. It's a bitch, but it's how the business works.
"I mean, I had to give up the spurs and saddle when I was forty-two. Nobody wanted me anymore. Now there's a cable network that's talking about rerunning the last three years of my series and, if that happens, then my career may take off all over again, and I'll make a little jack doing all the fan shows and conventions for over-the-hill cowboys. In fact, I just got done putting in an appearance with one of my local fan clubs. God, those pathetic bastards make me shudder."
He was actor pure and simple, Puckett thought. Ask him a question about anybody or anything and somehow he can immediately turn the conversation back to himself.
"Now," Preston said, "I'm going to kick you off this yacht of mine and maybe go water skiing with the girls out there."
Puckett smiled. "I guess AIDS really has cramped your style."
Preston patted his belly. "Well, at least I've got a lot of memories. Poor bastards starting out today could be dead by the time they're old enough to have any memories."
