They said that as a matter of course they couldn’t give it out, but since these were somewhat special circumstances they would. They gave him a New York number and an address in East Village that he realized was about three blocks from Premium Friends. He’d been close but not close enough.
Grey phoned and got no answer, no voice mail. He walked to the street, opened the trunk of the Chevelle, and rummaged through the tools that he’d stolen from Bo. He grabbed the hammer, wrapped it in an old shammy cloth, stepped back up and smashed in the glass door of STARMAKERS INC.
He went through the drawers of the desk looking for anything that might have information on Ellie or Eva Rains. He found a couple of DVD’s, including Teen Ball Busters 2, and some nude shots of her. On the back of the photos were her measurements, her sexual likes and dislikes, and Monty Stobbs’ address, which had been crossed out and poorly replaced with a stamp of the STARMAKERS INC. logo and phone number.
For a moment the edges of his vision turned black and red and he didn’t know why. It took him a second to realize that he’d been holding his breath. He didn’t know for how long. He took the least offensive photo of Ellie, climbed back into the car, and hurtled toward east Hollywood.
When he got back to the apartment Kendra was sitting naked on the bed, sipping from a champagne glass, a bottle on ice. She was looking through the paper for moving companies and had already started to box up some of her belongings.
She filled another glass and handed it to him. “So, I got us a new place. Judy called me. I hear you’re my co-star.”
He gulped the champagne down. “I’m not a co-star. I’m not doing it.”
“Why not?”
He snorted. “Jesus Christ, you people. I’m not an actor.”
“Who cares about that? You’ve got better instincts than at least half the schleps I’ve worked with over the years. The payday is a big one. There’s already a buzz building. You were right, the writer’s been getting a lot of publicity again. He’s being hailed as a hero. Interviewed on all the major talk shows. They might overturn his brother’s conviction. Killing Time is going to be a big release.”
“None of it means anything to me.”
“None of it means anything to anybody. It’s just what we do.”
“It’s not what I do.”
“Not yet maybe, but why not play along until something better comes around?”
He imagined the next phone call with Pax, telling him about being in a movie, and that Grey was doing better than the guys playing opposite the gorilla.
“We have a new agent, by the way,” she said.
He didn’t ask who. “I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Where?”
“New York.”
“I’ll go with you. Killing Time starts in six weeks. You can show me the lay of the land before we start. I need to work on my east coast accent.”
“I’m not starting anything. And I need to go alone.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to find John Raymond.”
“You’re still on that?”
He turned and she put her hand on his belly and started rubbing him the way she might try to calm a wired puppy. He wondered why she thought that he would stop looking for Ellie just because this dumb-ass film fell in his lap. Did she sincerely believe that once he had some cash he could set the search for his sister aside? That all he needed was something shiny flashed in front of his nose to make him forget the knife sticking out of Ellie’s side, the blood on her teeth, the tracks, the hardness? These people, didn’t they hold anyone or anything sacred?
The women out in the desert, the dust in the hollows of their cheeks, the careless way they smeared their lipstick on, the way their shoulders bowed beneath the burdens of their loneliness and failed dreams. It wasn’t only L.A. He thought of the savagery in their kisses and the way they pleaded with him to commit murder. Everyone had a scheme. Everyone had a plan. They all wanted a dupe. At least Monty had manned up at the end and taken responsibility.
“What is it?” Kendra said. “What’s this expression on your face?”
“Nothing.”
He drank directly from the bottle and finished about half the champagne. Then he packed his few bags, put them by the door.
“You’ll need money,” she said. She took the dowel off the corner post of the bed and he saw that inside there was a niche deep enough to hold a wad of cash. At least it proved she didn’t trust him enough to keep her money lying around. She pulled it out and counted off five thousand. “Here, you deserve it. You picked the script. You won me the audition. You made it happen. Besides, Monty won’t be getting a cut in prison.”
“I can’t take it,” he said.
“Call it a loan. Until you get your check from the company.”
“I’m not doing the movie.”
“I think you will when the time comes.” She stuffed the roll of bills in his hand. “Who knows, maybe you really will find your sister in the next six weeks. Maybe you can even help her get a bit part in the film. Isn’t that better than doing damage?”
He thought, No.
20
After twenty hours on the road Grey started to see double. He pulled over and got a room at a highway motel outside of Oklahoma City. Tired as he was he couldn’t fall asleep, so he spent a couple of hours flipping through the cable stations. He half-expected to find one of Kendra’s movies but there weren’t any playing. He checked the adult entertainment channels and saw he could order an Eva Rains and Harvey Wallbanger film for $19.99. He drew out Ellie’s photo and stared at it, thinking again about how he’d let her go and hadn’t done enough to protect her. He dropped off with the sun still shining and had fitful dreams about Pax beating hell out of old man Wagner, neo-Nazis and monkeys, Monty’s wife’s brains running like undercooked eggs thrown against a wall. He saw himself at the premiere to Killing Time, standing on a red carpet, wearing a tux and smiling and waving to screaming fans. Except they weren’t fans at all, they were just people in pain who couldn’t stop shrieking. And it wasn’t a red carpet at all, it was white and growing more and more stained with lapping blood. Grey kept grinning and waving.
21
With only six hours sleep in three days, having covered 2700 miles, Grey crawled through the mid-day traffic of the Holland Tunnel, crossed into Manhattan and made his way to the Village. He parked on the street half a block down from STARMAKERS INC.
The New York office looked very much like the L.A. one, stationed between a liquor store and a vintage clothing shop. The same kind of “For Lease” sticker was glued to the glass. Grey stuck his nose up to the window and saw a figure go by and a light snap off.
The door was locked. Grey knocked and the figure in the shadows ignored him. He banged harder and the figure gestured for him to leave.
Grey took the shammy-wrapped hammer out of his jacket pocket and smashed the glass in.
Turned out not to be John Raymond but a girl of about twenty-two who was cleaning out a desk. She looked so much like Ellie that his stomach dropped and he took two quick steps toward her, arms wide as if going in for a hug. He realized his mistake just in time and stopped short, his heels squeaking on the dirty tile floor.
She backed off into a corner and spoke quietly, calmly, like she was talking to an escaped mental patient. “Okay, okay, I suppose I should have opened the door. But now you’re here, so, right...how may I help you?”
He hit the light switch on the wall. Now that he could see her clearly she didn’t look much like Ellie at all. Her face was rounder, eyes bright with a swirl of fear and maybe even droll mischief in them. There was a small space between her front teeth that gave her a little girl appearance. Her hair was a dirtier blonde, longer and more curly. How could he have mistaken her for Ellie?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were someone else. I’m looking for John Raymond.”
“You thought I looked lik
e that fat bastard?”
“No, I—”
“Let me guess, you’re another satisfied client, yeah?”
“No, not exactly, I just—”
“Well, everyone’s looking for him. The landlord, the folks he reps, his grandmother in Poughkeepsie. She’s eighty-five and calls every...fuckin’...day. These old ladies, they get something set in their heads and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing that can get it out again. He took a powder almost three months ago and he hasn’t paid his bills or his employees, of which I am the last, since. I’m Lace.” She squared her shoulders and put her fists on her hips. “And no, I don’t have any residual checks for you. And I don’t know where your head shots are. And I can’t send you out for auditions. And I haven’t heard back from any casting agents about your screen test. And you can’t have anything in the office because I’m taking it all to sell before I get kicked out of my apartment. Are we square on all that?”
“Yeah,” Grey said.
“Good. This is good, I’m glad you’re being reasonable.”
If Raymond had been gone all this time, with no one in L.A. or New York knowing where he was, then there could only be one of two explanations. He was either dead or in hiding. And that meant Ellie was dead or in hiding with him.
Grey shook his head, his breathing hitching in his chest. A cold sweat broke on his forehead.
He put a hand out to the desk and held himself up.
“Are you all right?” Lace asked.
“Yeah.”
What would Pax do? Pax would have a plan. Pax wouldn’t be chasing his own tail. Pax would do something more than smash windows. Grey imagined him here now, beside him, tall and powerful and in command, cool and ready for anything, in charge. He looked to the left as if he was looking into Pax’s eyes now, reading them, seeing what the next move was supposed to be.
“You don’t look so good,” Lace said. She pulled a bottle of Jameson’s out of the bottom drawer of Raymond’s desk. These agents, they all kept a bottle on hand for nips between clients, and they all had the same taste. “Whatever he did to screw you over, at least you can drink the last few shots of his whiskey.”
Grey ignored the bottle. “Do you know Eva Rains?”
“That fucking bitch. Of course I know her. She’s the one who brought this house of cards down on us all.”
“What do you mean?”
Lace riffled through the drawers, pulling out anything that looked like it might have any value at all. A calculator, an iPod. “I told him a hundred times to cut loose the junkies, but he liked her for some reason and refused to let her go. He set her up with some nice bits on the weekly crime dramas but she always ruined it for herself. But she had a hold on him, you know? She’s beautiful and sexy and a porn gal who can spin around the world with that golden twat and those big fake tits.”
“They’re not fake,” he said, and then wondered why he’d bother. Lace looked at him like she had no idea what he was about and was still worried he might start swinging the hammer again. She clutched the few items to her chest. He asked, “Is there any contact information on her?”
“All right, now I’ve got to ask. Who are you?”
“I’m her brother.”
Lace actually clucked. “Right.”
“For Christ’s sake, it’s the truth.”
“I don’t see the resemblance.”
Grey tried not to sigh. “Does it really matter? Even if you don’t believe me, do you care enough not to tell me?”
“No, I suppose not. She was living with John.”
“Where?”
Lace gave him an address on East 72nd. “But they’re not there. The apartment might even have been rented out by now.”
There had to be something. Some way to find out what had gone wrong. What had made them run. What had happened to make Raymond stab Ellie with a four-inch blade, if it had been him. Where their bodies were.
“You’re sweating like hell. Are you on the needle too?”
He glared at her. “No.”
She proffered him the whiskey again. “Here, take a swig. You need it. You look like you’re about to fall down.”
He drank deeply from the bottle. The heat went through him and swarmed up into his skull and then down into his chest and across his exhausted muscles. He took another swig. The girl watched him. She still had no clue whether he was telling the truth but she didn’t really care. She just wanted out. His strung nerves began to loosen.
“Can you find out what the last job Raymond got for her was?”
“I already know. It was a bit part on a sit-com. It aired a few weeks back. I saw it. She was pretty good. But she’d already gotten a reputation as someone who wouldn’t show up on time and might not show up at all. Once you’ve got that rep, you’re through.”
It was practically word for word what Harvey had told him. “You knew she was a junkie.”
“Everyone did. And not a coke fiend or a pill popper. Those we know how to handle. But you get a meth-head or a crack-head or a needle shooter, and it’s all over.”
“Where did she buy her product?”
“Product?”
“The H. The heroin.”
“How the hell should I know?”
He’d crossed the country just so he could learn almost nothing.
He left the Chevelle on the street and started walking with no idea of where he was going. He didn’t have an apartment anymore. He would have to get a hotel room or crash with T.S. He could still feel the dust of the desert stuck in his lungs. He coughed and couldn’t get rid of it. Grey looked up and he was back at Premium Friends.
22
He stepped in and the Asian madam immediately barked something. She had a good eye and remembered him from three months ago when he’d stirred trouble. The two bouncers moved in but they did it slowly, with a real wariness because there were some other johns moving in and out of the parlor room where the girls were lined up and drinking cocktails. Grey tried to smile pleasantly but could guess he was probably only grimacing.
A strange sense of vertigo hit him. His head was dizzy but his legs didn’t waver. He felt rooted and light on his feet as he moved to the first bouncer, spun, and brought an elbow up high to the no-neck’s temple. The guy dropped like a dead rhino. The madam yawped again and the second bouncer unsnapped two buttons on his jacket and reached inside a shoulder holster for what looked like a snub .38. Grey didn’t give him time to pull it. He danced over, head still fogged and kind of whirling, lashed out and punched the prick in the throat. It was a cheap move he’d learned in the Army, but an effective one. The guy went to his knees choking. Grey reached in and grabbed the .38, then clipped him on the back of the head with the barrel. A gout of hair, scalp, and blood flew through the air and the guy fell flat on his face and didn’t stir.
The beautiful thing about New York is no one ever wants to get involved. The girls fled to the back rooms. The johns bolted out the door. No one was going to call the cops. Grey grabbed the madam and held her up against the front counter where she welcomed clients.
His head cleared. He’d had the answer the whole time but just didn’t know it.
All that had been in Ellie’s purse that day was the heroin, the needle, and the business card.
Ellie hadn’t worked here.
This was where she scored her heroin.
If you want to find a junkie, go to a drug dealer.
He asked the woman, “Who runs this place?”
She tightened up, shut her eyes, hugged her elbows. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
“You’re in a position of responsibility. I think you do know something.”
“No no. I just set up the dates. That’s all.”
“Open your eyes.”
“No no.”
“Open.” She squinted at him. “You report to someone. I would like to know who that someone is.”
“No, no report.”
“Yes, report. Get him on the ph
one.”
“No, no phone.”
”I’m really enjoying our talk,” he said. “But seriously, it’s time to get the show on the road, lady.” He cocked the .38 and held it up to her forehead. “Give me a name.”
The gun alone didn’t scare her, but she took a look into Grey’s face, saw that he’d come to the end of his road and played out his entire string, and that was enough. She whispered something.
“Again,” Grey prompted.
“Mr. Jericho.”
“Full name.”
“Benson Jericho.”
“And where is he at the moment?”
A silky voice came from behind Grey. “I’m right here.”
Grey turned.
He thought, Is this the end? Am I there yet? Is Ellie around the next corner?
He took two steps forward and stood practically toe to toe with Jericho. The man was younger than might be expected. He didn’t look like a whoremaster and drug dealer. At this level it was all big business, and he projected the cultivated persona and attitude of the wealthy and cosmopolitan businessman. Refined with expensive tastes. Silk suit to go with the voice.
Grey took a breath. Jericho’s cologne, face cream, exfoliates, and hair product all smelled like money.
He thought, This man has an enormous backstory. This is the kind of role a serious actor could set his teeth into. Jericho. You’d run the lines and think off the page, like Kendra had said. No matter what the dialogue was you had to figure out, Did he hate his father? Was he bullied as a child? Was he allergic to strawberries. Jericho. Grey looked and saw him flayed open, his whole life leaking out. When he was a kid his old man drilled holes in bowling balls. Looked like Jericho was going to wax lanes his entire life, but raised himself from some one stoplight town and managed to swing a serious scholarship to a prestigious school. Not Ivy League but close. Started off selling weed but quickly moved up to the harder stuff, had a whole network in place by the time he was nineteen. Had the charm to pimp a few of the cheerleaders at school, made money with Internet amateur porn. Made a bundle and moved to the city, put the girls up in a nice place and gave it a five-star name. Premium Friends. Didn’t really need to get his hands dirty except on a few occasions. At least one girl probably thought she was getting cheated and threatened to go to the cops. Jericho cuffed her to the bed and tortured her with pressure points, raped her, and promised to kill her parents if she ever said anything. She fell back in line and was probably one of the happiest whores in the place. The heroin came in from the Asian woman’s family somewhere in Thailand. If anything ever went wrong he was at least four connections away from customs. Nothing ever stuck to him. He thought of himself as a gentleman bandit, an entrepreneur of pleasure and desire.
The Last Deep Breath Page 6
