"Can't think why she went."
"Sometimes women are gentle like that,” Joe suggested. “She would have been feeling guilty, perhaps, about dumping him. He maybe made an overture of friendship, or offered to apologise for something."
"And you're not worried she trashed his place first?"
Joe smiled kindly. “Don't you get it? He made that up so I'd be on his side. It didn't happen, Zoe. Not before today. And even if she had—well. I don't like stalkers."
"Me neither,” Zoe said. And meant it. Tom had made a pass at her shortly after that meeting in the market, and evidently didn't take rejection well, hence the spate of late-night calls she and Joe had suffered awhile back. But Joe had been right about one thing; there were ways, with technological trickery, that someone clever could find out who'd been making phone calls, no matter that they thought they'd shielded their number. Trashing Tom Parker's place had been her reasonable response. It hadn't occurred to her he'd think Tessa had done it, but the more she listened to Joe, the more she was sure he'd thought no such thing. He'd known it was Zoe. Using Joe—steering him to where he'd do to Tessa what Zoe had done to Tom—was the typical stalker's revenge: manipulative, distant, pleased with itself. His hard luck Joe had seen through him. Not that she was about to share any of this. “How'd you get into his place anyway?"
His second break-in. Harder when you don't have a key.
"Bob Poland helped,” he said. For a fee. “Policemen know the strangest things. Like getting through locks."
Zoe nodded. Getting through locks was a skill she'd been tutored in by a local tearaway. “And what did you do?” she asked, curious. “Once you were in?"
There'd been a moment when he'd almost turned and left, overcome by the enormity of it: of breaking in, of wreaking havoc. But then he'd seen Tom's office. I like things ordered, Joe, he'd said. And there, to prove it, stood his filing cabinets, with their reams of carefully alphabetised records that Joe had carefully, randomly, reordered. Tom would be hours straightening that lot out. Hours. Maybe days.
"It's better you don't know,” he told her.
He was sure that's what Marlowe would have said.
(c)2008 by Mick Herron
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE GOOD FATHER by William Link
In partnership with Richard Levinson, William Link was the creator and producer of some of the most popular shows on TV, including Columbo, Mannix, Ellery Queen, and Murder, She Wrote. For their joint work on such series Levinson and Link received a special Edgar Award and the Ellery Queen Award from MWA, and were three-time winners of the Edgar for Best TV Feature or Mini-series Teleplay.
It would seem Jay Jordan had made the fatal mistake of turning fifty.
A successful television writer since his twenties, Jay was known to postpone a European vacation if his producer needed an additional rewrite on a Hill Street Blues. It was one of the reasons, albeit a minor one, why his marriage went into receivership. And on that one his wife Lynne was, unfortunately, the receiver.
But no sooner he had blown out the candles on his birthday cake than it seemed he'd simultaneously blown out the wires on his phone. He would ask his agent about the lack of current assignments on a Monday and the man (one of his oldest friends) would wish him a happy weekend as they hung up. When his picture was taken down off the wall at the Palm, one of Hollywood's premier steak houses, he knew immediately that the industry was reciting him his Last (W)Rites. All the new work was going to the army of young writers who seemed to love their computers more than their wives or girlfriends.
It was not that Jay was skirting the poverty line. He still owned his ranch house in Sherman Oaks, his once obese stock portfolio, membership at the health and tennis clubs, but his insatiable urge to write was like poison ivy—Ahhh, it was great scratching it even if it drew a little masochistic blood in the process. Goddammit, he had come up the hard way, poor kid from the Bronx, no money to go to college, just this starved monkey on his back, hungering to write, to get his words up there on the screen. Actually, down there on the screen since he was a TV scribe. But now...
He was sitting in his living room at eleven in the morning, unshaven, still in his bathrobe, when his ex called. As usual, she wanted at his wallet. There was always a justifiable reason: Jeffrey (their son) wanted to go to Baja with his friends for a weekend, the roof was leaking again, Jeffrey's dental bills. Legally, he didn't have to pay any of this but she always managed to make him a last-drop-of-blood donor. Even blindfolded, hands tied behind her back, she could unerringly find his guilt button. All this expressed in her usual harridan's voice.
"You never see Jeffrey, you never even saw him in his school's The Mikado, and he was the Mikado!"
"Gimme a break, I paid for his damn costume."
"But you never saw him in it."
She had him there: He saw his son maybe six, seven times a year. He just couldn't relate to the kid, he was too Californian: too blond, too tanned, too arrogant even at five and even worse as a teenager. He called Jay “Jay.” Where was his respect, treating his father like one of his pot-smoking buddies? Jay had compounded the situation by getting him into a private school filled with the opportunistic offspring of the town's actors, agents, entertainment lawyers. You could catch them in homeroom every morning reading the trades, looking forward to their lattes at lunch.
It was only after he had gotten Lynne off the phone with his usual promise of forthcoming lucre that the idea hit him. It came unheralded like most of his best story ideas, a gift-wrapped missive from the subconscious. But it had its downside: It meant a talk with the blood recipient. A very serious, probably hard-sell session which would finally give the kid, not being too Freudian about it, an upper cajone in their relationship. Could he deal with that? You betcha!
He always dreaded going back to the house he lost to Lynne in the marriage settlement: a faux-Tudor on Hillcrest in Beverly Hills. He even avoided driving by it if possible. But this was business!
In his ex's now over-decorated living room (God, some of the furnishings actually looked Iranian!), he confronted Jeffrey, who sat sprawled on a sofa, scruffy in soiled T-shirt and cargo pants, drinking a soda. He was regarding Jay with a contemplative smirk like a used-car salesman evaluating his newest victim.
Before Jay could begin, Jeffrey said, “Jay, I've been thinking. You know, my name, Jeffrey Jordan—it's a little over-the-top alliterative. Wouldn't you say? It gets embarrassing."
Jay wanted to throw up. But this was business. “You might have a point there,” he managed to concede. But he loved the fact that his son had used the word “alliterative.” Maybe they read more than the trades at that showbiz school.
"I want to change it,” Jeffrey said emphatically.
"That can be done,” Jay agreed. “We can do that legally, no problem. Let me know."
"Great. You know what I'd like to change it to?"
Jay shrugged. “What?"
"Hunter. Hunter Jordan. Cool, don't you think?"
"Very cool. Now—ah—I'd like to discuss something else."
Jeffrey, future Hunter, rolled over on the sofa. He popped himself up, almost into Jay's face. “Lay it on, Jay."
Jay explained the situation in television, the young demographic the industry thirsted for, the dangers that faced Jeffrey and Lynne since the industry had pressed his delete button. Think of it—the lack of tuition money, the perks like Baja, etc. No new car next year. The newly christened Hunter without a Hummer!
If his son was disturbed by Jay's dissertation, his face remained unperturbed. He took a hearty swig of his Big Red, said, “So what's the climax of the plot? You're the writer."
"An impersonation. You."
Jeffrey, ex-Mikado, straightened up on the sofa. “Me?"
"You go in, pitch the story to the producer. You get the assignment and I write the script. They'll never know the old fart did the writing."
Jeffrey pondered this, then his smirk
surfaced again. “These guys are idiots? I never pitched anything in my life. They'd be on me like my shorts."
Jay confided that most were bereft of brain cells. He would coach him on exactly how to tell the story, the little tricks to charm them out of their Guccis. If they wanted to buy the story and the teleplay, they would make a deal with Jay's agent, who would be in on the scam.
Jay leaned closer, grabbed the Big Red can from Jeffrey, took a swig. Chums. Fellow conspirators. “Think it over, I'll buzz you tomorrow.” He quickly got up to go.
"Just a minute,” Jeffrey said. “Cool it. What's the back-end here?"
Money. Always the goddamn money. “I'll give you points, a percentage, we'll work it out.” He started out again.
"Not so fast. I got this rotten tough lit teacher, Mr. Haviland? Suppose you write me my next essay assignment for this bozo. Quid pro quo. Huh?"
Jay shrugged. “Quid pro quo. We got a deal—Hunter."
* * * *
It was easier than they'd both thought. Jay was his new teacher for a week, his Marine drill sergeant, drumming the story into his head, even how to sit (directly facing the producer, not his clones), no shave, his wardrobe (the scruffy T-shirt and cargo pants were perfecto). Jay was getting the distinct impression that the quid pro quo was more important to his son than the promise of compensation. He was actually beginning to like this California mutant he had somehow, improbably, hatched. The boy's light-switch, on-and-off smirk seemed self-defensive now, hiding an innate shyness and insecurity.
Jay nervously drove him to the studio for the pitch meeting, parking right inside the gate because the studio cop remembered him from the “old days.” Last year?!
Jeffrey came out an hour later in an ecstatic trance. “They loved it,” he said. “Got a weed?"
"You never know if they loved it. These guys invented duplicity."
But they did—love it.
Jay's agent made the deal and he was happily pounding out the script, day and night, on his old Remington. He would never switch to a computer, words had to be driven into the paper, like Faulkner said, nails into wood.
Meanwhile Haviland had assigned Jeffrey an essay, “What is Morality?” Relishing the irony, Jay knocked it out in an hour, an easy two-Pepsi chore.
The producers finally read Jeffrey's script, liked it even more than their on-lot parking stalls, his prodigy winding up with a multiple assignment on the show. Those bastards, Jay thought, I've still got the juice but they've forced me to pimp my own flesh and blood.
Jay took his family to Spago for a victory celebration. Wolfgang himself dropped by the table and Jay proclaimed that his boy Hunter was a genius, the newest hot TV writer while he was still in high school, no less. Later a mountain of desserts covered every inch of the tablecloth, gratis.
On the way home, Jay asked his son if he was thinking at all of what he eventually wanted to do for a living. Writing, maybe?
"Nah,” Jeffrey said. “I'd like to be a doctor someday. Do something of value with my life. I hear there's going to be a real shortage of doctors."
Boy, did I misjudge this kid, Jay thought. Serves me right for being some kind of shadow father, wrapping him in long-arm-proffered gifts instead of real paternal love.
"That's going to take a lot of hard study,” Jay said. “Are you prepared?"
"I know it's hard, but I'm up for it."
Jay was working on a new script for the show when the phone rang. The voice was scratchy like an old phonograph record. “Mr. Jordan. This is Richard Haviland, your son's lit teacher?"
"Yes. Sure. Jeffrey's told me about you."
"I think it's important we get together, Mr. Jordan. Are you free to come by the school tomorrow night at eight o'clock? I'll be working late."
"Ahh—I think so, yes. Could you tell me what it's about?"
"That best be discussed when you see me."
Ominous. “Awright. Fine. I'll be there."
Jeffrey was as puzzled as Jay. He had submitted his ghost-written essay, but Haviland hadn't announced the grades yet or discussed them in class. “He's the proto-nerd, Jay, halitosis, flatulence, the whole putrid package. Nobody wants to sit in the front row."
The following night Jay was made even more uneasy by the deserted school building, lights still scowling out of empty offices. Haviland was sitting at a brightly lit desk in a crowd of shadows, a tall, monochrome figure as emaciated as a residual check. Jay felt like a schoolboy, called on the carpet for his unruly class behavior.
"Good evening,” Haviland said. He was no more than forty-five but already graying. He didn't extend his hand. “We have a problem,” he said, eschewing any formalities.
"Oh? What's that?"
"Your son Jeffrey submitted an essay paper. It was quite obvious he didn't write it."
He was going to have to tough this one out. “Hard to believe. My boy's a very fine television writer. He has a three-script assignment on one of the best series."
"I know all about that,” Haviland said in his scratchy, slightly condescending tones, “he told me. But I looked you up on the Net. I'm afraid you are the only writer in the family."
"Afraid?"
Haviland pushed his papers away. “This is a serious offense. I will have to report it to the dean."
Jay groaned inwardly. So now private schools had “deans.” “You'd have to prove Jeffrey didn't write it."
"Easily done. Trust me."
Stalemate. Mexican standoff. Jay held his ground in silence, trying not to blink. Let your opponent speak first. If that wasn't one of Machiavelli's primary rules, it should be. And then he spied the suspicious stack of Hollywood trade papers on the desk.
"I think this problem is more serious than you believe, Mr. Jordan.” He saw that Jay's eyes were fixated on the stack. “My fiancée's brother is an associate producer on the series your son is writing for. A most unhappy coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
It was possible Jay's old, recurring ulcer was ready for its close-up. “So what?"
"I think you wrote Jeffrey's essay and you also wrote the script he sold to this television show. I would hate to reveal that fact to my fiancée's brother."
Jay took his time smiling, letting it slowly uncoil like a snake. “I don't like to disappoint you, Haviland, but they won't give a damn. They need good scripts, they have air dates."
"So I should go ahead and tell him?"
"That would be irresponsible and malicious. I don't think you'd do that if you were compensated.” Money, always money. “Am I right?"
The teacher met his eyes. “I'm beginning to do a little script writing myself, but it means working mostly nights and weekends. I would like to take a sabbatical and really get the job done. But that would mean I'd have to be subsidized for a while. Are you following, Mr. Jordan?"
"Like a heat-seeking missile.” Thank God he had years of training keeping his anger in check, a necessity in the television snake pit. “What's the price tag on this ‘sabbatical'?"
"That is open to negotiation."
Jay already had a plan. “Let me think about it."
He met the next day with Dave Kramer, the show-runner that his son had his deal with, a stocky young ex-New Yorker who wore the mandatory producer's beard. “Your son's doing a great job for us,” he said. “You should be proud."
Jay said casually, “He's not writing the scripts. I am."
Just as casual: “We know."
It was a brief but very pleasant meeting. As Jay had suspected, Kramer couldn't give a damn about the masquerade. He had figured no sixteen-year-old, inexperienced kid could write scripts of that quality so it had to be his father, the old, dependable pro.
Jay phoned Haviland, said they should meet again. He had dinner with Jeffrey, this time without his mother.
"Dave Kramer knows about our subterfuge,” he said, “but he doesn't give a damn."
Jeffrey was unfazed. “He's a pretty cool dude. So it's just business as usual?"
&nbs
p; "You got it.” He took a sip of his martini and scrutinized his only child. The boy actually had his hair combed tonight and was wearing a very presentable sports jacket with a crisp shirt. “Are you sure the writing bug hasn't infected you?"
Jeffrey smiled. “I guess Mom's genes cut it off at the pass. Nah, I'm still looking at med school."
"Y'know, I'm starting to get impressed with you, Hunter. I thought you were turning out to be one of those Beverly Hills trust-fund brats. Maybe we'll take a vacation this summer together. Just you and your ghost writer."
Jeffrey smiled. “That'd be cool."
Jay got a sudden lump in his throat when Jeffrey called him “Dad” instead of “Jay” when he dropped him off at his ex-house.
He took his time getting gas and then drove straight to his meeting with Haviland. He thought he wasn't nervous but he kept checking the time on his dashboard display.
The school was almost deserted again except for a workman buffing the entranceway floor to a mirrorlike sheen. He went directly to Haviland's classroom, his heels kicking up echoes like warning gunshots.
Tonight Haviland had the remains of a Chinese takeout on his desk. He was briskly napkining the grease off his hands when Jay came in. There were no amicable preliminaries.
Jay said, “I told the head honcho on Jeffrey's show that I was the guy writing the scripts. He couldn't care less. So I guess that robs you of any leverage you thought you had. I guess I didn't know blackmailer was on your curriculum vitae."
Haviland broke open a fortune cookie, read the slip, ate the cookie. “Why should people like you be granted the license of immoral behavior and deny it to people like me? Are you the liege in the castle who governs by feudal law?"
He smiled for the very first time, a shred of chop suey hanging off his lip.
"You call my old ranch house in the Valley a castle?” Jay went to the door. More gunshots. “I don't think we'll be seeing each other anymore, Haviland. Except maybe at a PTA meeting."
"I still have leverage."
EQMM, May 2008 Page 14
