Fourth Wall (An Anthony Carrick Mystery Book 8)

by Jason Blacker

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One - North of Montana

  Two - An Emotion Named Desire

  Three - Original Muscle Beach

  Four - Woodland Hills

  Five - Nosy Nelly

  Six - Vampires at Venice

  Seven - A Play at Death

  Eight - Grim is the Reaper's Night

  Nine - Broken Fourth Wall

  Ten - Helping Hands

  Eleven - The Rich and Infamous

  Twelve - Man from Montana

  Thirteen - The Price is Right

  Fourteen - A Taste of Britain

  Fifteen - Smelting the Truth

  Sixteen - Basket Cases

  Seventeen - Bullet to the Brain

  Eighteen - Britain's Second Best

  Nineteen - Into the Hornet's Nest

  Twenty - Woodland Ills

  Twenty-One - Digging up Dirt

  Twenty-Two - The Furious and Spurious

  Twenty-Three - Three in a Row

  Twenty-Four - And the Little One Said, Roll Over

  Twenty-Five - A Pain in the Neck

  ENJOYED THE BOOK?

  SOME OF MY OTHER BOOKS

  FOURTH WALL

  by

  Jason Blacker

  Copyright © 2017 Jason Blacker

  PUBLISHED BY: Lemon Tree Publishing

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  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  Editing: Andrea Anesi

  ISBN-13: 9781927623688

  For my brother, the actor, who knows how hard artists work.

  ONE

  North of Montana

  HER body was the color of the moon on a foggy night. He was on the bed getting dressed. She was under a single blanket that draped her curves like it was jealous. She was propped on an elbow with a cigarette in that same hand in a cigarette holder as long and slender as her hand. The kind that long dead movie stars used to use. She fancied herself as a movie star. She had the looks and the body but her talent was left wanting. Even the sex was trite and drawn out like an old Russian novel. Not that she’d read any.

  He was tall and boyishly muscular. That was a kind way of saying that he was young. Time would catch up with him. He didn’t put effort into his temple. He never had to. Life had been somewhat of a buffet handed to him on a silver platter. But for now he had the smooth chest of a eunuch and the classic good looks that couldn’t be trusted. He was putting on socks and looking at her. He’d tapped that, he thought, looking at that lithe figure, almost languid as she lay across the bed.

  It was her bed too. Her marital bed. But then what else is to be expected of people that lie for a living. In other words, the two of them were actors. In fact, the pair were performing at the Los Angeles Theatre. The play was the appropriately ironic Streetcar Named Desire. Ironic in the sense that she was a married woman in a difficult marriage. The only difficult thing about the marriage was the fact that he wished her to be monogamous. Faithful. But that was such a chore.

  And this man who sat on her bed, who had just moments before been inside her and given her pleasure as she had never known, didn’t love her. She knew that. He had at least been open about that aspect of himself. Like I said, he was a man who thought of himself as God’s gift to the world. Though naturally, he wasn’t a pious man. Quite the opposite. It was his mission. One of his missions at least, to bed more women than Gene Simmons. Some had put that at 5,000. A monumental mountain to climb, but our lad felt up to the challenge. At twenty-eight, he had already managed over 2,000. He knew the exact number in his head. It was 2,012.

  But it was stalling. Because this woman with whom he was with right now, was pestering for more and more of his time. That left less time for other pursuits and other women. Though at the moment, as he leaned over and pulled the sheet off of her and kissed her on the exposed hip, he wasn’t that worried about it.

  You see, this man was a blockbuster superstar. He had a huge fanbase. A fanbase primarily of women, young women who would be nothing if not happy to have a piece of him inside of them. You might find this crass. But this, my friend, is the way of the world for some folks. Then why, you might be asking, was he wasting time in the theatre doing a play? Because it was all the rage now amongst big-name actors to spend a season doing a play. His agent said it would improve his chops. The thing is, he didn’t really have chops to improve. No sir, like I’d said before, he was a man who had been thrust upon the buffet of life only on account of his genes.

  If you were to think kindly of him, and few men did, you might think his vacuousness and facile behavior was due to a deep insecurity. You’d be wrong. He was not insecure, rather he leaned more towards the other end of the spectrum. Arrogance. Though he tried to treat most folks well, there was always an aura of arrogance around him. No, perhaps the best that could be said about him was that his good looks had never allowed him to develop deeper characteristics on account of people always treating him differently because he was so damn good looking. But that would be untrue. Some people are just assholes and our man was one of them.

  “When will I see you again?” she asked as ash dropped from her cigarette onto the ashtray on the bed in front of her.

  “You’ll see me tonight, baby doll,” he grinned at her. “We’re on stage at eight.”

  She rolled her eyes. In most women it was tiresome and overly dramatic. With her it was damn sexy.

  “You know what I mean,” she said, sucking on her cigarette.

  Our cad noticed that, and thought back to earlier in their tryst that afternoon when she was sucking on other things. She had the kind of voice that men would go to war for. The kind of voice that would keep you from work when it whispered in your ear for just a little bit more.

  “Well, let me check my schedule,” he said, pretending to flip through pages of an agenda. “Ah yes. Next year, in the third quarter, when the gray wolf barks at the blue moon.”

  She swatted at him with her free hand, but missed.

  “You’re impossible,” she said.

  “Darling,” came a voice from inside the large mansion.

  “Shit, it’s my husband,” she said.

  That’s the last thing the cad needed. He was indiscreet but he always did it with discretion. She waved her hand at the window, for there was no time for him to exit through the house itself. She got up and quickly made the bed, as our man threw on his shirt, zipped up his pants and slipped on his shoes and opened the window to exit. He stole one last look at her as she bent over the bed showing him once again where few had been. He had been one of the few.

  He didn’t button up his shirt. He climbed out of the window onto the roof and slithered away from view. She ran to the bathroom and jumped into the shower. It was cold at first and gave her goosebumps on her perfectly marbled skin. The old man came into the room. He looked around and saw her clothes on the floor. Saw the carelessly and quickly made bed. Heard the shower and she singing in it. She could sing. She could fuck, and she could make grown men drool with just a glance. But what she couldn’t do was be kind to the man who had married her. At least not a certain depth of kindness that kept most marriages afloat.

  He’d been told that she was only after his money.
But he wouldn’t hear of it. She loved him. That’s what she’d said. And you believed her too. She told you she did. And angels didn’t lie. That’s what he thought until he realized that demons and angels can sometimes look alike. But now it was too late. He hadn’t asked for a prenup. Even his lawyer had called him an idiot. And now, with a quarter billion dollars at stake he wasn’t about to let her have a divorce. She wanted one but he had leverage. He had photographs of her infidelities and she knew that would cut into her share.

  So they both sucked it up. She was eye candy on his arm and he was some schmuck who bought her things and let her live in a nice big house in North of Montana overlooking the golf course.

  This old man wasn’t all that old. In the right light you could mistake him for being in his mid-fifties even though he was sixty-three. He wasn’t all that fat either. He was tanned and had naturally gray hair when it wasn’t dyed. He was soft, but that was to be expected. With his wealth and connections, there was always some luncheon or event to be at. And when he wasn’t networking he was on the set of the next blockbuster. And he’d had to work with our cad too. That galled him. He sighed, and rummaged his hands through his hair.

  You wouldn’t call him handsome. You wouldn’t call him much at all, except for the accoutrements. That’s what caught your attention. The Patek watch. The Bentley. The house. Suddenly, our old man was looking pretty attractive. Unlike you and me friend, the rich and the beautiful have all sorts of problems, only money ain’t one of them.

  “You in there, Mary?” he asked.

  Her name was Mary Beale. I kid you not. Maybe that explained her love of the arts. Hard to say. It was her real name too, not just her stage name.

  “I’m just taking a shower, darling,” she said.

  He didn’t smile at that. She called everyone darling. It was just her way. Liars lying for a living. Darling might as well have meant asshole to him. He’d come home early to see if he might catch them in the act. He’d never been able to. It would help his case if she ever got a divorce. His PIs had managed to get good shots, but nothing nude and lewd as they say. But enough that you knew she was having an affair. He wanted the nude and lewd stuff. He wanted to embarrass her. But that was getting hard to do.

  Outside, on the roof. Not a hot tin roof, but the pink clay tiles were warm to the touch, our cad squatted overlooking the golf course. His shirt was still open and the warm wind caressed his skin. Seemed even the natural world loved our young man. He was thinking how lucky he was. It was a close call, and a good thing that this part of the house was at the back and overlooking the golf course. The front would’ve been a nightmare. The tabloids would pay good money for these shots. But the paparazzi were in the front. You couldn’t get anything from the back. Or so he thought.

  TWO

  An Emotion Named Desire

  I hadn’t been to a play in years. Probably the last time was with Racquel, when times had been good and Aibhilin was just a toddler. Why am I telling you this? Because M has just invited me to the Los Angeles Theatre to see A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. I’ve never seen it before. And I probably won’t see it again. But it’s a classic you know. And because of that, people want to see it.

  It’s not a happy play. The kindest thing that can be said of it, is that it is filled with lost souls. Let me give you a synopsis while I wait for M to come and pick me up.

  There’s these two sisters, right? Blanche and Stella. Looks like Blanche has done well. It appears she has money until she loses the estate home she had after her husband dies. So she goes to live with her sister Stella who’s married to the asshole named Stanley. He’s abusive and Blanche doesn’t like him. He’s a drinker and gambler. However, Blanche gets sweet on one of Stanley’s poker buddies called Mitch.

  But because Stanley doesn’t like Blanche, she comes across as a bit arrogant at first, he digs up dirt on her and tells Stella and Mitch. Stella’s upset with her husband as she should be. Mitch confronts Blanche, the woman he’s falling in love with about the rumors. She denies them at first but they turn out to be true. What rumors you ask? Like the fact that she caught her husband in a homosexual affair with an older man and that she whored herself out as a hooker. It also turns out that the reason Blanche lost her job as a teacher was because she fucked a student. These are the kinds of people this play revolves around.

  So, Mitch is pissed as he would be, and it looks like he’s about to take his anger out on Blanche by raping her, when she’s able to escape. Stella by the way is having a baby, and when she’s off to the hospital it appears as if Stanley rapes Blanche. Because he’s an asshole and they don’t like each other. This ruins Blanche, pushing her into looneyville. So that’s where she ends up, in a mental hospital. And even though she told her sister, Stella, what Stanley did, Stella doesn’t believe her and sides with her asshole of a husband.

  These are the kinds of fucked up people I had my daily fill of when I was on the job. I don’t need to watch plays about them. Anyway, there’s this hot young superstar supposed to be playing the role of Stanley that women can’t seem to get enough of. You might have seen him in one of the many blockbuster movies he’s been in such as Midnight Walks With Madness and the Role of Jimmy Mime. Both movies I haven’t seen, but they were huge hits for him. Amongst others. His name is William Orpen. My suspicion is that M wants to see the play in part to catch an eyeful of Willy Open. I don’t know if that’s a nickname he takes to, but it’s the one I use. I don’t know much about him, but you can’t help to hear the rumors. So he’s Willy, because Dick’s a nickname for Richard and Willy means the same thing only smaller, and he’s Open because that’s what it seems he is, at least to women.

  I’m not jealous if you’re wondering. I just can’t get behind someone who’s never struggled. And that’s the case with Willy Open. You might recognize the family name. Orpen Financial Services is the name of his father’s business. How do I know all of this? Because you can’t live in LA, let alone the USA and not know one of the most successful hedge funds of this country’s history. And there’s a Dick if there ever was one, I’m talking about old man Orpen, Richard Orpen, who started the firm. Willy’s old man. And he’s a real dick, not just because his name’s Richard. He’s probably put more people out of work than Mexican and Chinese labor combined.

  As an ex-homicide cop, it surprises me that there’s never been an attempt on his life. But I’m getting off course. I’m in between watching the middleweight fight of the year and cooking dinner for M, who should be here any minute. She hasn’t had the honor of visiting my swanky apartment before. And I say that in jest. There ain’t nothing swanky about it.

  Pirate is eating dry cat food in the corner of the kitchen while the spaghetti is sitting ready to boil. It’s fresh pasta so I’m just gonna basically blanche it for a couple of minutes when M arrives. Meanwhile, the pasta sauce has been thickening on the stove for the past hour. I make a good pasta sauce. It’s all in the garlic and olive oil and fresh Roma tomatoes. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it. Oh yeah, fresh basil helps too.

  I’m watching Jimmy “The Fist” Maloney fighting against Joaquin “El Toro” Sanchez. It’s round six of the usual twelve and from what I’ve seen, Jimmy The Fist is ahead on points. Jimmy’s got a longer reach and almost three inches in height. Joaquin The Bull is aptly named. He’s stocky and compact and can take punches like a sandbag. In fact, he’s never been knocked down or knocked out, and he remains undefeated.

  Jimmy The Fist, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have the cleanest record. He’s had twenty-eight professional bouts. Of those, he’s won sixteen, twelve by knockout. He’s lost twelve and been knocked out five times. The way I see it, it looks like El Toro is trying to tire him out for the big KO. But Jimmy’s looking in better shape than I’ve ever seen him. Gonna be a good fight.

  I was gonna make my famous meatballs, but astute readers will remember that M is vegetarian. So I had to rethink that. I found these fake meatba
lls in the store when I went shopping. They’re made of tofu or something. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten tofu before. At least not knowingly. Not that I’m against it. Each to his own right? But it just doesn’t look appetizing. These fake meatballs though, they could pull it off. They look pretty similar. I’m just gonna fry them for a couple of minutes before I dump them on top of the pasta and sauce.

  There’s also a simple salad that’s waiting on the table. I made the poppyseed dressing myself. For dessert there’s a tiramisu. I made it all. It’s not all that hard, and I’m self taught in the kitchen. But I figured I’d stick with the Italian theme for the night. Before I forget, I had tried to feed Pirate one of these fake meatballs just to see how authentic it was. He nibbled at it, and licked it, but that was about it. So the carnivorous critic didn’t go for it. But we’ll see. I could be fooled. Anyway, it’s for M. It’s not for me.

  Sticking with the Italian theme, I picked up a bottle of Uvaggio Barbera 2007. This is a reserved lot of thirty-five cases, or so the wine guy was telling me at the store. Never had it. But at around twenty bucks it wasn’t out of my range. Supposed to go good with meatballs. We’ll see.

  El Toro’s coming out strong now in the eighth. He’s cut The Fist up above the left eyebrow and he’s bleeding like someone just uncorked my Barbera over his face. I had money on The Fist, not a lot. Just a hundred bucks. I’d sold a couple more paintings this month so I was feeling flush with cash. Jimmy The Fist’s the underdog. I’m always a sucker for the underdog. In fact, he was a three to one underdog. Looked like I was gonna lose Benjamin. I shrugged. Pirate had finished his food when I heard the chime from downstairs. But it was a false alarm. Probably someone walking past the hallway.

  I live in Santa Monica as you know. The only way I can afford to is because this building is old as dirt. It’s one of the last old Art Deco buildings still original in this little part of town. It’s now become historic they say. It’s been owned by an Italian family since it was built. I’m telling you this because it hasn’t got fancy technology. It’s all old from the twenties. I get the chime on my end, but no video of who’s there. Marcello owns the building now. He got it off his old man who got it off his old man, the guy who bought it originally. The Godfather, they call him. Giuseppe was his real name.