B00N1384BU EBOK

by Unknown

  "That'd be mighty kind of you, thanks."

  She fetches juice from a pitcher in the fridge and fills a large glass. Don't want to seem rude but I sink half of it fast because jeez, I'm struggling to breathe. The temperature's pretty average outside, but it's damn near unbearable in here. I lose the jacket.

  And then I see it. I don't react, at least not how I want to, but I follow it all the way around the kitchen with my eyes. It's a cat – a pampered, overfed and overweight thing – and hanging from its collar is a piece of gold. Is that the florin piece? If not, it's a pretty good effigy. Wait a sec, though . . . would Wesley really be so stupid as to hide something as valuable as that in plain sight? Surely not.

  Now I hate cats. Damn things make me sneeze and make my eyes water, but I need to get a closer look. The critter jumps onto a chair then onto a worktop, then starts prowling. It comes when I call to it. It jumps back down and wraps itself around my legs, weaving in and out. I try to snag the collar but the damn thing seems to know what I'm after. Whenever I get close it turns away and walks, tail in the air, leaving me with a view of its rear end and not a lot else.

  Mrs. Wesley refills my drink then sits down adjacent to me. "You'll have to excuse Hector," she says, nodding at the cat. "He damn near rules the place."

  "He's a lovely creature."

  "He's a pain in the ass," she says, correcting me. "He eats, he shits, he shouts and he scratches, and that's about all."

  I decide not to mention the collar. That'd be too obvious.

  "Now anything you can tell me at all would be most useful . . ."

  "I should warn you, Mr. Parlour, my memory's not what it used to be. Some days it's a struggle to remember who I am and what I'm doing!"

  She laughs out loud, her noise filling the house.

  "Anything at all would be helpful . . ."

  "Well I'll certainly try."

  "And that's all I'm asking."

  I take a bunch of papers from my briefcase. Attention to detail, that's what this is all about. Get the small details right, and everything else will click into place. I had some Chandler, Knox and Meyer letter headings printed up, and I helped myself to some files of papers from the talent agency's office shelves. I leaf through the sheets. "This all looks mighty formal," she says, sounding worried.

  "Not at all, ma'am. Okay, obvious questions first, do you have any idea where Mr. and Mrs. Lawler might have moved to? I had a couple leads, but they seem to have disappeared right off the map."

  "I'm sorry, I don't. You know, it's strange. I used to think about them a lot. Can't remember anything much now though. They moved out, we moved in as I recall."

  "We keep drawing blanks every which way we turn," I tell her as the damn cat rubs up against my legs again. I reach down and pick him up. I know cats are wise little critters. They know more than they let on. So what's with this guy? Is he warning me off, or trying to tell me something? I hold him gently and pet him, even though my eyes are streaming and all I want to do is throw him out the window.

  "Hector's hungry," Mrs. Wesley explains. "Is he bothering you, Mr. Parlour?"

  "Not at all, Mrs. Wesley, not at all. He's a fine specimen."

  "He's a spoilt little rat," she says quickly, taking me by surprise, then taking him from me. She dumps him on the floor again.

  "He can't be that bad."

  "You try living with him. If it wasn't for John I'd have thrown him out a long time ago."

  The house is quiet, muffled noise coming from elsewhere, a little background hum. Then I hear a car pull up out front. Mrs. Wesley's face lights up. "I don't think I'll be able to help you much, Mr. Parlor, but my husband might remember a little more than I do. That'll be him now."

  John Wesley.

  It's time.

  Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay in character.

  Timed breaths. Make the exhale a few counts longer than the inhale.

  The front porch door opens, and I feel myself tense. What if he recognizes me? What if someone's told him I'm here?

  But the guy who opens the door isn't the guy I'm expecting to see. He's half the size and twice the age of the John Wesley in the photo Levi sent me. He puckers up and kisses Mrs. Wesley on the cheek – doesn't even notice I'm here – then enters the house proper, shuffling more than walking. I don't like this. Despite the cool breeze coming in from outside, the heat in this house seems to rise a couple of degrees every few seconds. I finish my drink, wishing I had something stronger than fruit juice.

  "This here's Mr. Parlour," Mrs. Wesley says, introducing me. "Mr. Parlour's a lawyer. He's been asking questions about the Lawlers. You remember the Lawlers, John?"

  "Can't say I do," he says, and he creeps across the room to where I'm sitting and shakes my hand, a broad grin fixed on his weathered face. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Parlour."

  "You too, sir."

  Now he looks confused. "Why you here again?"

  "I'm trying to trace the Lawlers, sir, the folks who lived here before you did."

  He just looks at me, blank. "Nope."

  Something's not right here. This ain't going to plan. I unbutton the top of my shirt and watch the cat drinking from the sink. If it wasn't for that damn creature and its collar, I think I'd probably leave.

  "Folks," I tell them, "I don't want to take up any more of your time than I have to. You've been very kind and hospitable and I hate to impose like this, but would you know of anyone else who might be able to help? Neighbors . . . a relative?"

  "Has he spoken to John?" Mr. Wesley asks, looking at his wife.

  "I didn't think to introduce them. Do you think I should?"

  "I think you probably should."

  "Wait . . ." I say, "John? Excuse me, sir, but I thought you were John Wesley."

  "I am, but you might want to talk to my son, John Junior. This is his place, actually. We just live in to help out. He has certain . . . needs, you see."

  "What kind of needs?"

  Mrs. Wesley explains. "John junior has some physical restrictions."

  "What kind of restrictions?" I instinctively ask, forgetting myself. "I apologize for being so forward. I hope you don't mind me asking."

  "Not at all, not at all. John junior's not particularly mobile, you see. Would you like to talk with him?"

  "I'd like that very much, ma'am. That's if it's not too much trouble, and as long as John junior won't mind."

  "Oh, he won't mind. It'll be good for him to see a different face. It's just the two of us looking after him most the time. You wait here, I'll go check he's decent."

  And with that she's up and gone, leaving me alone with John senior. He's staring at me and grinning, but I don't think he's sussed. I try and make conversation but it's hard because there's nothing there. This old guy's just a shell, nothing between his ears but fading memories he's struggling to hold onto. One day I reckon he'll just forget to breathe . . .

  And then his expression changes. "Say . . . you look like you can handle yourself. Would you give me a hand with something?"

  I'm immediately wary, but I don't let it show. "Sure. What do you need?"

  "Just help me bring in the groceries from the car?"

  "No problem."

  I follow him out, both of us almost tripping over the damn cat again. Man, it's good to be outside. It's getting dark and it's much cooler out here – bordering on cold – but that suits me just fine. The temperature drop helps me focus.

  There's a tired old station wagon on the driveway. Now I don't profess to know a huge amount about the upkeep and maintenance of automobiles, but I do know that this particular vehicle is not in the best of shape. Its suspension is shot, tires half-hidden by dropped wheel arches. John senior opens up the trunk, and I do a double-take. It's crammed full of stuff. Meat, chips, cereals, candy . . . enough to feed an entire army.

  It takes a while to get everything inside. I make like it's no big deal, because I don't want them smelling a rat. I stay positive and courteous and in characte
r throughout, even though I'm tired of being here. Thing is, I think these folks are on the level. I think its John junior I need to be wary of.

  But it'll be a while before I get to meet him. Mrs. Wesley says he's sleeping. They ask me if I'd like to stay for dinner, and when John senior holds up a huge steak from the mountain of food we just brought inside, there's no way I can refuse.

  ***

  It's finally time.

  "You have to understand," Mrs. Wesley says as she takes me deeper into the house, "the poor boy's had a tough time of it these past few years. His health's not what it was. He might not be able to help you."

  "I understand, but it's got to be worth a try, ma'am."

  There's a door at the end of this short corridor, light spilling out from underneath. The cat's here too, still getting under my feet. And all the breathing exercises in the world can't help me now . . . there's no shame admitting I'm nervous as hell, but it's not because of Wesley, it's because I reckon my destiny lies on the other side of this door. It's like opening night or the first morning on set, only with a thousand times more at stake.

  "If you don't mind me asking, Mrs. Wesley, what exactly is wrong with John junior?"

  She looks straight at me, face hard to read in the half-light. "There's nothing wrong as such, dear." She breaks into a wide grin then touches my arm. "Best you just see for yourself, Mr. Parlour. Let's just say, John's developed a taste for the finer things in life."

  And before I can say anything else, she pushes the door open slightly and peers around it. I can hear the noise of a TV. After a second or two, it's silenced.

  "What?" a voice shouts.

  "It's me, John. I have someone here to see you."

  "I'm eating."

  "It's a Mr. Parlour, John. He'd like to talk to you."

  "I said I'm eating."

  "John, dear, you're always eating. Now please can I bring Mr. Parlour in?"

  "Whatever."

  Jeez, he sounds like an obnoxious kid. I mean, he has the voice of an older man, but the intonation of a teenager, like he can't be bothered, like every word's an effort. I half-expect to see him sitting there playing games on an Xbox or PlayStation, something like that.

  But the reality is very, very different.

  The room is dominated by a huge, reinforced hospital bed that almost fills the floor space, and on top is a huge mound of flesh that almost fills the bed. This – this thing – must be John junior. For a couple seconds I struggle to locate his face in amongst all the tire-sized rolls of fat, but then I spot his dark piggy eyes. He glares at me, then returns his attention to a massive TV on the opposite wall. His appearance is almost comical: just a belly with stumpy limbs attached. His head looks too small for his massive, undulating body. John junior is grotesque. I can't even begin to guess his weight. The bed frame sags like his gut and the damn thing creaks whenever he moves, like it's about to collapse. The cat jumps up and walks across the enormous white expanse of his stomach, and he doesn't even notice, not even when it paws and pummels at his flesh.

  He glances at me again, then crams a fistful of chips into his cavernous mouth.

  "John, dear," Mrs. Wesley says, "say hello to Mr. Parlour."

  "Get out," he yells at her, his voice filling the room. His sudden anger takes me by surprise. He sounds less like a petulant kid now. He sounds a little nervous and surprised. Whatever he's feeling, I'm sensing a vulnerability that makes my confidence increase.

  The door closes behind me. Mrs. Wesley has gone. Just me, John and the cat now. He tickles the cat's chin with an engorged hand. He whispers to the creature balanced on the dome of his gut.

  Now we're alone, he changes. The kid act is dropped.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  "My name's Ray Parlour. I'm a junior partner with Chandler, Knox and Meyer. I'm here to talk to you about—"

  "Cut the crap. Who the fuck are you? You one of Levi's?"

  Shit.

  I didn't want to reveal my hand so soon, but what are my options? He switches off the TV and looks straight at me again, tiny head pivoting on massive shoulders. What do I do? But then I look at him – all of him – and the question becomes what can he do? Far as I can see, he's going nowhere fast.

  "Yeah, I'm one of Levi's."

  "So you're here for the piece of the florin?"

  "That's right."

  "And you thought you'd just rock up and take it?"

  "Something like that."

  He laughs – deep bellows which make his vast belly quake. The cat digs its claws in, hanging on for dear life.

  "How did you know?"

  "I've got them well trained."

  "Who?"

  "Ma and Pa out there. They know what to do when someone unexpected shows up and takes a shine to this here cat. This ain't the florin piece, by the way," he says, tugging at the cat's collar.

  "I didn't think it would be."

  He shoves a cupcake in his mouth and talks as he eats. It's gross. "S'matter with you?" he asks, picking up on my expression. "I'm a growing man . . . have to keep my strength up."

  I just look at him in disgust. I've always taken a heck of a lot of pride in my appearance, and not just because of the job I do back in LA. Not everyone's the same - there are plenty of roles for fat, ugly people too – but John junior . . . I've never seen anything like this guy before. I can't help asking the question that's on the tip of my tongue. "How'd' you get into such a state, John? I mean, I've seen documentaries on National Geographic and stuff like that, but how d'you get so damn fat?"

  "I eat a lot," he says, no trace of irony. "I like food. I don't need to go nowhere or do nothing right now . . . I've got it all here. I'm warm, comfortable, safe . . . I've got those two running around after me, keeping me fed and washing me down. I have the TV and the Internet . . . it ain't a bad life, believe me."

  "Forgive me, but it don't much look like a good life."

  "You'd be surprised, Mr. . . ."

  "Totters. Jeremy Totters."

  "I'd stick with Parlour. It has a better ring to it."

  "Whatever."

  He continues to hold my gaze. "I knew you were coming."

  "Nice of you to make so much effort then."

  He ignores my sarcasm. "I'd heard things were changing with Levi. Looking to take over there, are you, boy?"

  "Maybe."

  "You won't make it."

  "And how would you know? You know nothing about me."

  "I know more than you think."

  "Bullshit."

  "Not shit."

  He watches me over his belly as it rises and falls with each breath. Jeez, his heart must be under a massive amount of strain. Can't imagine it'd take much to push him over the edge.

  I move to the foot of the bed and stand in front of the TV screen. He reaches over to his right and grabs another massive fistful of food. Donuts, chips, pies . . . it all gets mushed together in his grip. He lays it out on his belly and starts picking at it, the cat licking crumbs off his cellulite. It's disgusting, but my stomach grumbles just the same.

  I'm getting tired of this.

  "So what do you reckon you know about me, John?"

  He washes down more food with a family-size soda, then wipes sugar and debris from his mouth and cleans his hands on the sweat-soaked bed-sheets. "You gave it a pretty good shot, to be fair," he says, "though you made a couple of basic mistakes."

  "Such as?"

  "Fussing the cat when you're clearly allergic."

  "How do you know?"

  "How do you think I know?" He gestures at the door. "She told me. She tells me everything. She said you were crying and sniffing and doing all you could not to let it show. Dead giveaway."

  "Not necessarily."

  "Very necessarily."

  "And is that it? You're basing everything on me and the cat?"

  "What did you think of my folks? See any family resemblance?"

  "Nope. But then again, that might have something to do
with you being ten times their combined weight."

  He laughs again, ripples running the length of his body, little waves of fat. "Nice. No . . . you wouldn't have seen a family resemblance even if we were a similar size. You know why?"

  "Why?"

  "Because we're not family, dumb-ass."

  "Then who . . .?"

  "The reason those folks don't remember Mr. and Mrs. Lawler is 'cause they are Mr. and Mrs. Lawler. It's a simple spell, but they're simple folks so it worked. They love me like I'm their son, because I told them that's what I am. Oh, and I planted the story of their disappearance in the local press to tempt folks like you to come digging. Worked a treat."

  "Bull."

  "See, Jeremy, you didn't think, you assumed. Damn, Levi's coven's doomed if folk like you are the cream of his crop."

  "Screw you."

  "So what exactly are you, anyways? I'm having trouble working you out. Some kind of businessman? You look pretty smart, obviously take care of yourself and keep in good condition . . ."

  "I'm an actor," I tell him.

  "Figures. Men like you and me are all actors to an extent, don't you agree?"

  "I guess. But then again, I don't see how you can class men like you and me in the same category, John."

  He just looks at me, unblinking. "Tell me, did Levi give you any information before he sent you here?"

  I figure it's safe to tell him, seeing how he's stuck on that bed like a stranded whale. What's he gonna do? I don't reckon he'd even be able to support his own weight, never mind come after me. "He gave me a photograph, but you didn't look like this back then."

  I take the picture from my pocket and show him.

  "I've changed my hair," he laughs, rubbing his fresh-shorn scalp. His pudgy hand grips mine. He finds the tarot card I clipped to the back of the photo. "The Devil," he says. "Very interesting. And was that supposed to be something of a clue?"

  "If you like."

  He holds the card up, smearing it with greasy finger-marks. "The clues were all there, Jeremy. You just didn't see 'em. Look at it again. Those folks chained to the podium . . . they represent Ma and Pa. Notice anything about their shackles, though?"

  I take the card from him and look again. The two figures standing either side of the Devil are chained, but the chains are loose. They could leave at any time.