by Judy Nunn
Come on, come on, Judd thought as he heard the bell ringing at the other end of the line. It took him three telephone calls over the period of an hour to get through. By then his nerves were strained beyond endurance. ‘Wait there,’ he was told. ‘Just sit tight and everything’ll be fine.’
It wasn’t long before the parcel arrived, delivered by special courier. Judd opened it. Inside the heavy packaging was an hermetically sealed syringe and a small plastic bag containing one ounce of heroin.
He looked at it for a full ten minutes and started to sweat. Judd had been off the hard stuff for over a year now. But it took him only ten minutes to make a decision. It was what he needed. Just one good hit to take his mind off things, to clear his brain of the awful images.
The death of Judd Weinberg III, only son of one of America’s most prominent financiers, would have been news five years before. But Judd Senior had been in retirement for nearly six years now and, to those who knew his son, death by heroin overdose came as no great surprise. Judd had been flirting with hard drugs for so many years now that it had really only been a matter of time. There was a small byline in several of the papers, but that was all they could afford to run. Every centimetre of space was taken up by the murder of Marcel Gireaux. Even the coincidence of the apartment block on the corner of 70th and 5th barely rated a mention.
The assassination of Marcel Gireaux continued to make headlines and monopolise television screens all around the world. There was footage to cover every angle – from the gruesome impact of the bullet which had blown Marcel’s head away to the crowd hysteria and the ghoulish news crews scrambling to film the bloody scene.
The police were in chaos. Where had the bullet come from? This hadn’t been expected. They were there to govern crowd control. This was a movie,for Chrissakes. If an assassination had been even a remote possibility the secret service would have been there. And the intelligence division.
On Stanley’s instructions, several officers had raced towards the Frick building while others tried to stem the spreading panic. The emergency squad was called in and the gallery was surrounded, but no trace of the assassin could be found.
Ballistic tests later showed that the shot could not have been fired from the rooftop of the Frick Gallery. The weapon had been aimed from a greater height and the bullet had entered Gireaux’s head from more of a frontal angle. It was deduced that the assassin must have fired from one of the upper apartments or from the rooftop of the block on the opposite corner of 70th and 5th.
The newspapersj which were quick to publish the findings, further concluded that the assassin or assassins had been in the pay of some extremist group who opposed what Gireaux stood for. Marcel Gireaux had died the way he had lived, they announced dramatically. Playing a role. And his final role had been that of a martyr to his cause.
The inquest was two weeks later. They all attended: Michael, Emma, Stanley, Derek, Mandy, even Franklin Ross. And Annette Gireaux was there.
Emma watched her. She was a handsome woman, despite the fact that her face showed great fatigue. Her eyes mirrored the strain she was under but she was strong, obviously determined not to give in to her grief.
The findings of the inquest were just as the newspapers had hypothesised. Marcel Gireaux had been shot down by a person or persons unknown. There was no link with the film he had been making. But the judge was quick to voice his disapproval of the fact that the publicity surrounding the film had obviously afforded the assassin information and accessibility.
As they left the courtroom, Annette walked straight up to Emma and introduced herself.
‘I am Annette Gireaux,’ she said, but didn’t offer her hand.
‘How do you do,’ Emma replied. ‘I’m Emma Clare.’
‘Yes, I know. The writer. Marcel spoke of you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emma said. ‘It’s a terrible thing. I don’t know what to – ’
‘There is no leading lady in Earth Man.’
Annette’s eyes were drilling into hers and Emma had no idea what it was she was expected to say. ‘No.’
‘Marcel always worked opposite a leading lady. This time it was opposite sea turtles and gulls and terns. One wonders what he got up to during all that time on an island in the South Pacific’
Still Emma didn’t know what to say. But Annette saved her the trouble. ‘Did you sleep with my husband?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Nothing in Emma’s face betrayed the lie. And yet she had never knowingly lied in her life before. Even the fibs, the ‘white lies’ of her childhood, had caught her out. She’d always become flustered and confused by deception. Now, all of a sudden, it was so easy. Why?
It was the pain inside Annette Gireaux which made it easy. Behind the bold challenge in the woman’s eyes was the desperate plea to know that her husband had belonged to her at the end. And he had, Emma thought – so where was the lie? He’d always belonged to Annette. Annette and her children. What had two nights of lust meant in the scheme of things? What had Marcel’s infatuation meant? ‘La folie du filmage’ – that’s all it had been. And as soon as he’d returned to his home he would have recognised it himself.
‘No, I didn’t sleep with your husband,’ she said. ‘But we talked a great deal. A lot about work, but mainly about you and the children. He loved you very much.’
Annette held her gaze. It was a test. But Emma didn’t flinch from it. Why should she? She was telling the truth. And Annette knew it.
‘Yes, he did.’ The smile was tight, strained. Maybe, deep inside, Annette sensed there had been something between Marcel and Emma, but she also sensed that this young woman was telling the truth and relief flooded through her. For the first time since she had received the news of Marcel’s death, she wanted to weep. She wanted to cry for her dear peasant boy. Her dear foolish, self–deluding child of a man. If only he hadn’t believed the roles he’d played – if only he hadn’t let the world believe them – he’d be alive today. But then he wouldn’t have been her Marcel, would he? Annette knew she had to leave. Before the tears.
She offered her hand. ‘Thank you.’ The handshake was firm, businesslike. ‘I must be going,’ she said and she turned and walked briskly down the marble-floored corridor before Emma could say another word.
‘Irresponsible, Michael. The judge said as much.’ Franklin had requested that Michael accompany him to his office after the inquest. It was more of an order than a request. ‘The story should never have been given to the newspapers.’
‘Why not, for Christ’s sake?’ Michael had found the inquest interminable despite the three uppers he’d taken that morning so he’d snorted a hefty line towards the end of the day’s court proceedings. He was still on a high and not in the mood for a Franklin Ross lecture.
‘One of the world’s leading actors was placed in jeopardy, that’s why not,’ Franklin barked. ‘And he was murdered, that’s why not. The publicity surrounding the filming afforded the assassin accessibility – they were the judge’s very words. It was damned irresponsible of you.’
‘I don’t agree, Grandfather. Surely I can’t be held responsible for every crazy zealot running around New York City.’
Michael had continued to call Franklin ‘Grandpa’ well into his adult years – it was a measure of his affection. He no longer did so. His grandfather’s constant disapproval had placed a strain on their relationship and Michael was tired of having to continually monitor his behaviour, tired of being treated like a child. The fondness he’d felt towards the old man was a thing of the past.
Franklin was aware of this, and it saddened him. Apart from Helen, Michael was the most important thing in his life. Nevertheless he could not relax his authority over the boy. Michael had to learn to discipline his actions.
‘The "crazy zealot" to whom you so glibly refer would never have been afforded such a perfect opportunity if you hadn’t gone public,’ he growled. ‘It was – ’
‘I know: irresponsible – you’ve already said
it twice. But the deed is done, Grandfather. It can’t be undone.’ Michael wasn’t going to let the old man get away with it this time. He wasn’t going to say ‘Sorry, Grandfather’ and look penitent. He knew it was what was expected of him. But not this time. This time he was going to come out on top.
‘And just think of what it’ll do for business,’ he said eagerly. ‘The movie will skyrocket.’ He was rewarded by the look of sudden shock in Franklin’s eyes. It took a lot to shock Franklin Ross. Michael felt a surge of power. ‘It was a regrettable incident, I agree,’ he added. ‘But you’ve always said yourself, Grandfather – when an opportunity offers itself, it’s foolish not to take advantage of it.’
Franklin stared at him, appalled. He said nothing. ‘For the past two weeks,’ Michael continued, with a glint of madness in his eyes, ‘every news, current affairs and chat show has been airing footage of Marcel’s murder. It’s the death of the decade, the death that shocked a nation – as big as Kennedy’s. If I can speed up post-production it’ll still be headline news by the time we premiere Earth Man … ’
It was true the media exposure of Marcel’s death had reached epic proportions. The gruesome footage had been shown so often that even the milder chat shows were cashing in on it under the guise of human kindness. Was it fair on the actor’s family and friends, they debated, to show such horrific film? And then, to up their ratings, they themselves showed the same footage.
The whole thing had become a tasteless circus and even those closely connected and deeply committed to the making of Earth Man were shocked when Michael demanded they speed up post-production so the film could premiere while the topic was still hot.
T think we should do exactly the opposite, Michael,’ Emma argued. ‘I think we should postpone the film a year as a gesture of respect.’
Stanley agreed. ‘It’s sick to cash in on it,’ he said.
Even Derek, whose career would skyrocket with the movie’s success, was in agreement.
Only Mandy was on Michael’s side. ‘I think Michael’s right,’ she said. ‘This is a business, after all. We have to do what’s best for the movie.’ It was no secret that Mandy idolised Michael.
He grinned at her, pleased by the support. She was a feisty little thing. ‘I respect your humanitarian instincts,’ he said to the others, ‘but we’re speeding up post-production – and that’s an order.’ The smile vanished and the voice hardened. ‘I want this movie released by March in time for the Academy Awards.’
Emma looked at Michael. What was happening to him? There was a madness in him these days. It was no longer the craziness of creative genius, it was the destructive madness of a megalomaniac.
Now Franklin was looking at Michael in the same way. What had gone wrong with the boy? He was sick. Was it the drugs that had done it? ‘I strongly disapprove of your using this tragic event to in any way promote your film,’ he said evenly. ‘But I take it my disapproval means nothing to you.’
‘No, Grandfather, it doesn’t.’
Franklin nodded curtly. End of interview. And when Michael had left the room he pressed the intercom buzzer. ‘Get hold of Karol Mankowski,’ he said to his secretary. ‘I want him in here immediately.’ Franklin did not intend to give up on Michael yet. Karol must intensify the surveillance, he must use every means at his disposal. If Michael’s mind was becoming deranged through drug abuse then they must prove it and get him committed as soon as possible. It was the best thing for the boy. Franklin’s only grandson was not going to go off the rails if there was any way he could prevent it.
Michael felt elated when he left Franklin’s office. He’d stood up to the old man at long last. He’d even shocked him and he remembered with pleasure the revulsion in Franklin’s eyes as he’d spoken of ‘the death of the decade’.
The truth would have shocked the old bastard even more, Michael thought, and he could have laughed out loud. Jesus, the truth would probably kill him. Not that anybody would ever know it of course, which was a pity in a way. It had all been so very clever. Easy too. Surprisingly easy.
It had been easy for them to persuade Marcel that the ‘Earth Man’ should die a martyr’s death. Well, they hadn’t had to persuade him at all, had they? Emma had done it for them. Michael remembered Derek’s words – ‘Marcel will do anything she says’.
Of course Marcel would do anything Emma said, Michael had thought impatiently at the time, they were lovers, weren’t they? At night, when Michael was lying awake thinking of Emma, or when he was driving himself into a woman’s body fantasising it was Emma’s, Marcel was doing the real thing. It was Marcel who was caressing Emma’s breasts, it was Marcel for whom Emma was parting her thighs, it was Marcel’s name Emma was crying out in the heat of her passion.
Michael had suspected it when they’d first come back from Fiji. He remembered the night he’d followed Marcel and seen him go up to Emma’s apartment where he stayed for nearly two hours. When he’d seen her kiss him goodnight at the front door, he’d known it was true. And the knowledge had tormented him.
They were clever at keeping their assignations a secret; he hadn’t been able to catch them out again, but he knew they were doing it. Emma denied the affair, of course, and he didn’t dare force the issue for fear of alienating her but his mind screamed to him each night as the images of them together infected his brain with the demons of madness.
There was only one way out. Marcel had to die. Just as Malcolm O’Brien had had to die. If Michael couldn’t possess Emma, then no one else could. And, once the decision was made, it was amazing how quickly the torment disappeared. Michael even felt sorry for Marcel. It was a pity and a waste, but it had to happen.
Even the way it had to happen was easy. Judd Weinberg III. Judd’s widowered father had left him a luxury apartment in the block on the corner of 70th and 5th and Judd was very much in debt to Michael. Of course Judd was in debt to a lot of people, which was why his father had so totally given up on him. ‘Good money after bad,’ Judd Senior had said when he’d settled his son’s debts for the third time. ‘You can have the apartment on 70th and 5th, boy, and that’s the last you’ll get out of me.’ And Judd Weinberg II had retired from the banking business and moved to Switzerland with his secretary who was thirty years his junior.
His wastrel son had continued to throw good money after bad, mainly in support of his drug habit. Which was how he’d got into debt with Michael.
When Michael had first arrived in New York, he’d been impressed by Judd’s aristocratic lineage, the luxury apartment and the apparently endless supply of ‘old money’, and he’d believed Judd’s request for a loan was perfectly valid. ‘Just to tide me over for six months, old man. My money’s all tied up till the end of the fiscal year.’
It was a hefty amount, but worth it to Michael. Judd Weinberg III was an excellent introduction to many an elite New York circle. Now, three years later, with accrued interest, the amount was even heftier and Judd was more than happy to grant a simple favour to Michael in order to cancel the debt.
‘The key to your apartment for an hour, Judd, that’s all,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine wants to watch the movie procession from a good vantage spot.’
‘Anything to oblige, old man,’ Judd had agreed hastily. ‘I’ll lay breakfast on if you like.’
‘No, he wants to watch it on his own,’ Michael said. ‘It should be very impressive – why don’t you watch it yourself? You’d have an excellent view from your girlfriend’s apartment.’ He knew Judd was screwing the middle-aged widow on the next floor down.
Judd didn’t like Michael’s tone and the suggestion sounded very much like an order to him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. ‘Good idea,’ he smiled.
Michael knew that, after the event, he could always pretend that he’d wanted Judd to have an alibi. ‘I was looking after you, old man,’ he could hear himself saying. But it wasn’t that. He needed Judd to be aware of his own complicity. Judd was a coward and a wimp and if he knew he w
as involved in a murder there was no way he would ever come forward.
But Michael’s assumption had been incorrect. Judd hadn’t kept quiet. He’d telephoned the following morning. Three times he’d telephoned. ‘Tell him I’m in a meeting, Mandy,’ he’d instructed.
And then, the third time, when Mandy had said, ‘The guy sounds hysterical, really off the planet, he keeps saying "You should have told me" over and over’, Michael started to worry.
‘Tell him to hang up and I’ll ring him back,’ he snapped. And when Mandy had left, he dialled Judd’s apartment on his private line.
‘I believe you’re trying to reach me, old man,’ he said, his mind racing. It was a pity Judd was overreacting like this. Something would have to be done about it.
‘We have to talk, Michael,’ Judd said. ‘We have to talk.’
‘And we shall, we shall, just calm down, take it easy.’
‘We have to talk – you should have told me -we have to talk.’
‘Tell you what,’ Michael said, ‘I’ll send you something over to calm you down and then we’ll talk a bit later, all right?’
‘No, Michael, please, don’t hang up.’ Judd sounded desperate. ‘Talk to me, I need to – ’
‘I will, I will, I promise. You just sit tight for a while and everything’ll be fine. You have my word.’
With Michael’s contacts, organising the delivery wasn’t difficult, but it was expensive. Very expensive. Pure heroin always was. But it would do the trick. The death of Judd Weinberg III hadn’t been part of his plan. But it was necessary.
Michael worked around the clock on Earth Man, consumed by his plan to premiere the movie in early spring. Much as the others may have disliked the notion, they could do little else but obey his orders.
Michael played as hard as he worked. He didn’t want to give his mind a moment’s respite. He didn’t want thoughts to creep in like snakes in the quieter moments of the night, reminding him of his guilt about Judd Weinberg. Poor old Judd, all he’d had to do was lend a bloke his key.
