I was starting to feel bad, and I wanted to ask him to stop, but he was on a roll. “I can’t read a piece of famed classic literature without wondering if it might be more fun to stab myself in the eyeball with a pencil. I’m not particularly good at video games though they look like they’d be fun. I’ve never been to camp without begging to come home before the first week is out. I was kicked out of peewee soccer. I can’t speak a foreign language. Not even Hindi, which horrifies my mother and makes her feel utterly disgraced among the family.”
“I could go on,” he offered.
“I only asked for one thing,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if he could hear me.
“Well, consider it part of my need to overachieve, even when disparaging myself.” I couldn’t tell if he was mad or not. His tone was flat. I decided not to push it any farther. I hadn’t wanted that conversation to end this way, but in another way it had been very illuminating to hear all that. Harrison was still a mystery, but at least one aspect was not. He was very sensitive about the things he couldn’t do.
It was a shame too. If I felt bad for all the stuff I was useless at, I’d never leave my room. Most people were able to accept at a young age that there were plenty of things they’d never be good at. Clearly, Harrison was not one of those people. Was it Van who was behind this? Or maybe Harrison’s mother? Maybe it was just Harrison himself. He did give off the perfectionist vibe.
Either way, after that I kept my trap shut for the short trip to Las Vegas, Nevada. It took only about an hour until we were circling a private airport, asking for permission to land. With very little coaching from Jockey, Trainer of Pilots, Harrison coasted in for a stop.
I took off the headphones and the seatbelt. As we were leaving the plane, I touched Harrison’s arm. I wasn’t good at apologizing. But I didn’t mind telling the truth. “I was out of line before. And you are a good pilot.”
He smiled slightly, but he didn’t respond, which made me feel worse. We stepped out on to the tarmac, and outside the weather was dry and hot. It brought home the truth that we’d flown, without permission, preparation or planning, to Las Vegas. Such a bizarre life I’d stepped into since I’d started hanging out with Harrison, and my life had been pretty bizarre before.
“Gregory Simpson works on the strip. I hired a driver. Would you believe you can’t rent a car at our age? No matter how much money you throw at it, you have to be eighteen. Go figure.”
Go figure. I would have been taking the bus. Actually, I wouldn’t have been here at all, because real people didn’t have their own planes. The driver Harrison hired was waiting for us at the curb. I was, frankly, expecting it to be a limousine. But it was a black, shiny sedan, understated and boring.
Inside, the car was dark, cool and silent. I could hear Harrison and the driver breathing. It was kind of freaky. The driver didn’t ask us where we were going. He didn’t do anything. He sat idly in the driver’s seat until Harrison directed him to a place called the Bellimah.
The driver asked if Harrison was certain that was where he wanted to go and it was clarified that, in fact, we did want to go there. He didn’t come out and say it, but the doubt and hesitation in the driver’s voice suggested that the kind of people who hired cars were not usually the kind of people who went to the Bellimah. Which was a good indication of the sort of place we were headed.
“Okay, who is this person again?”
Harrison was scrolling through his iPhone while he spoke, looking for I didn’t know what. It certainly wasn’t the man’s name, because he’d already told me what that was. Though I couldn’t remember it.
“Back in the early 90’s Gregory Simpson was moving up in the acting world. He was the heartthrob de jour at the time. I doubt anyone remembers him now. Anyone our age, anyway.”
“I think I saw a movie with him in it once. He was in high school. The cool guy who bets he can turn the local tomboy into a beauty pageant winner for five hundred bucks or something like that.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Okay, so why did he make the short list?”
“He couldn’t focus. He was always looking for something else. More stimulation. He was a druggie, but who isn’t in Hollywood? Anyway, he kept ditching Dad’s movies to do other work. Dad had him in like three movies because he was so hot at the time, not because he was good at his job. But then Dad lost his patience and dropped him in the middle of a film. Hired a nobody who’s a huge name now.”
That didn’t sound like a mortal sin, and it didn’t sound like Greg Simpson’s descent into working at a cheap hotel on the Vegas strip could be blamed on Van Poe. Maybe Harrison hadn’t understood the assignment. “I still don’t get why we’re here.”
Harrison made one last swipe on the phone with his finger and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. “Because of what happened next.”
I waited impatiently while he tied his shoe. He indicated to his laces. “Did you know this little piece of plastic here on the end is called an aglet?”
“No. Nor do I know why I would ever, ever care.”
Harrison laughed. “You never know. You may be on a game show someday, and that will be a question, and then you’ll thank me. You wait and see.”
“I can’t wait for the moment.”
Harrison snickered again. “Okay, well, after the third movie had to restart filming, Dad was so pissed he blacklisted the guy. And then he went all over Hollywood insisting, or at the very least heavily suggesting, that no one ever give the guy another job again.”
“Ah. I guess it worked?”
“Oh, yeah. It worked. In a year he was doing toothpaste commercials. By a year after that he’d disappeared from sight completely. Most of the time producers get annoyed with a big name, and they just don’t work with them again. But Dad wouldn’t let it go. In fact, he was proud of it. That’s how I know. He tells the story still.”
“Okay, yeah, Greg Simpson might have reason to be a little pissed. So what does he do now?”
Harrison grinned. “That, I’ll let you wait and see.”
It didn’t take us that long to reach the Bellimah. The hotel was definitely on the seedy side of town. Built somewhere in the 1960’s, it was a short, squat building with shiny gold accents and mirrors at every turn. The blinking sign out front announced that it, shockingly, had vacancies and that there were slot machines in the lobby.
Another smaller sign let me know it had, “showgirls, showgirls, showgirls” as well as a magician and an Elvis impersonator. Because all good hotels needed those. Inside the lobby, the Bellimah was at least consistent: old, stale smelling and dark. There was central air, but it was weak and almost warm coming in from the vents above us. The ceiling and walls were covered in mirrors. I could see myself from every angle. Which, turns out, was not something I appreciated.
Though I was relatively certain he’d never been here before, Harrison didn’t hesitate. He headed right for the theater. So I followed behind, frankly kind of afraid to be left behind in this lobby. There were only, like, three people in the lobby, but they weren’t people I was interested in being alone with.
There wasn’t anything going on in the theater. Well, nothing show-worthy anyway. There was a custodian listlessly sweeping, and a couple of showgirls wearing their elaborate headdresses and tattered robes. I grabbed Harrison’s arm. “Remember, no telling him who you are.”
“What should we tell him instead?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll think of something.”
He nodded. “You are the master.”
Was that a compliment or an insult? I spent so long thinking about it, I had to run to catch up with Harrison. Backstage in the theater was worse than out in front. But, blessedly, there were no mirrors here, so that was something. Even if there had been, it was so dark that I wouldn’t have been able to see myself anyway. I kicked something large and hard, and, cursing, I stumbled behind Harrison. Finally, we spilled out into an ill-lit hallway, lined wi
th peeling corkboard walls and dingy, industrial gray tile that was possibly supposed to be white.
“Is Grego a magician, or has he gone through some serious changes over the years, and now he’s one of those pretty little show girls?”
Harrison grinned at me. “Nope.”
He knocked hard on a dressing room door marked with a paper star reading Gregory Simpson. There was only one option left, but it was still kind of a shock when Gregory came to the door. He was in his mid-forties, with graying brown hair and a heavily lined face. From the waist up he was half naked and wearing a pair of ridiculous rhinestone sunglasses. From the waist down he was wearing white bell bottoms with bling down the sides.
Half man, half Elvis, Gregory Simpson was reading a tattered copy of On the Road and smoking pot in the building without the slightest concern that we might call the police or something. He bore next to no resemblance to the guy I remembered from the high school bet movie. He lowered the book.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Kitty Carson, and this is AJ Sweetwater. We’re from the MFA program at UCLA, and we’re writing a book based on our senior thesis. All about the swath of destruction laid by high-powered and sadistic producer, Van Poe.” I held up my hand like I was writing a dramatic headline across the air.
I made a point of not looking at my pal, AJ, because I had no idea what he’d think of my words. Harrison had the odd effect on me of making me not want to hurt his feelings. What the hell was that about?
Greg Simpson sighed. “Alright, fine. You better come in. But I don’t think you’re in the right place.”
I wasn’t certain what he meant by that, but I followed him inside anyway. Harrison stayed in the doorway. If I’d expected more of the same Bellimah hospitality in here, I was very much surprised. The walls were lined with crisp, cedar-scented wood, the smell almost overpowering the sharp tang of cloves and the sweetness of marijuana. He’d decorated the entire room in simple cedar furniture that looked handmade and of decent quality.
The walls were lined with bookcases, each filled to the brim with well-worn books, most as tattered as the one he was holding. There was a small kitchenette, simple but cleanly designed, and a bedroom in the back. The door was open so I could see his low profile platform bed, neatly made, and large windows facing outside the hotel, the curtains drawn back to allow in the light.
I saw no televisions, radios or computers, though that didn’t mean he didn’t have any. What I did see were still more books in the bedroom. He indicated to the furniture. “Aikido-style. I made it myself. No nails or screws.”
I wasn’t sure I trusted it, but it did no good to alienate the mark, so I sat. Harrison stayed where he was, blocking the door.
I pulled the handy notebook from my purse that I carried around for reasons just like this. Then I jotted down the names I’d given myself and Harrison in case I forgot. Which was a sad possibility. Greg shot me a level gaze.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not the person you’re looking for when it comes to chapters in your book. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of other people willing to tell you Van Poe is a piece of human refuse.”
Well. Much like Greg’s rooms and demeanor, that comment was unexpected. “That’s a disappointment. I was under the impression that he’d ruined your career. I had it on good authority that he went out of his way to stop you from working again.”
Greg nodded. “Oh, he did. But he didn’t ruin my career. I did. Look, you don’t know what that Hollywood life is like. I was coked out of my head all the time. I had no quality of life at all. Let me tell you something, kid. Van Poe did me a favor. He didn’t have to be such a jerk about it, but getting out of Hollywood was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
He sounded sincere. I couldn’t detect the slightest hint of rancor in his tone. He didn’t seem to mind the reduction in his circumstances. He gestured around him, as if reading my mind.
“It may not look like much, but I’ll tell you something. I built this place myself. Every inch of it. Even the furniture and the cabinets. I sing every night, which I love. That’s all the work I have to do. In return I live here for free, I eat at the buffet for free too. I make a small stipend for books and…” He glanced at his weed. “Stuff. But it’s all I need.”
“You’ve done a very good job,” I admitted. “This is a nice place.”
“Thanks. One thousand square feet. Used to be an office space for the theater manager. There was major water damage. It was a dump at first, but it only took me like a year to make it rock. It’s Zen here. I am happier than I’ve ever been, and I only have Van Poe to thank for it. I never would have found my way here on my own, and that would have been a real shame.”
I didn’t have to feign my disappointment. It was clear to me that we didn’t have our man. “Is there anyone else you can think of who might be a good source for our book?”
He flashed me a smile that, for a moment, brought back the heartthrob he’d once been. “I think that would be a pretty long list, sweetheart. But the top would be Mark Mason, Vicky Bridges and Naomi Olson. Naomi lives here in Vegas. Who knows where the others are now.”
The name Mark Mason sounded familiar to me, but the rest were strangers. Not to Harrison, I guessed, because he stiffened. “What happened with those three?” I poised my pen above the notebook.
“Mark Mason used to be Van Poe’s head stunt man. In charge of everything. He was injured too badly to work anymore, and it was because of Van’s insistence that he try a stunt that was very dangerous. But he said if Mark didn’t do it he’d lose his job. So Mark ended up with a lame settlement and a lame job.”
Ohh. I knew who he was talking about now. The giant mountain of a security guard I’d met on the set. I risked a glance at Harrison, who did not look pleased. I was guessing he was fond of Mark. I was also figuring that if he reacted this way to the idea of Mark being a problem, I’d definitely better keep my suspicions of Ana to myself.
“Vickie Bridges went nuts during a movie that Van directed. He pushed her so hard, made her do so many takes, and made her live in such deprived conditions to get into the mind of the character, that she had to be institutionalized. After that she never worked again.”
“Wow.” She certainly sounded like a good prospect. But then he ruined that one too.
“But she likely won’t see you. I mean, she’s a complete shut-in. I don’t think she allows visitors either. She’s been in and out of mental institutions for years.”
“How about the third woman?”
“Naomi Olson. That was a good old case of Van being a chauvinist. Naomi got pregnant, right about the same time as I was burning alive. We were working on the same movie. Van flipped out. Said he wouldn’t have a pregnant woman in one of his movies. That it was disgusting, and no one should have to be subjected to watching a pregnant woman on screen. He threatened to sue to get her thrown off the movie.”
“Jeez.”
“Well, he got his way anyway, because the movie had to fold in the middle, since he gave me the boot. Not that I didn’t deserve it.”
“It couldn’t have hurt her career that badly to be associated with a movie that tanked because of someone else.”
“It might not have if that had been the end of it. It wasn’t so hot to have a baby back then as it is now. Babies are like purses now. There was no equality for mothers in Hollywood, and no one gave a crap about it, either. Except Naomi. She went on a crusade for equality for mothers in Hollywood. Got herself branded as a crazy woman, a ranter on a pointless mission. Difficult to work with.”
“That wasn’t exactly Van’s fault,” I pointed out. Not that I thought he wasn’t a piece of work anyway.
“Nah, not really. But he was awful about it. If not for him she’d have been fine. No one else talked about pregnancy. They didn’t like it, but they shot from the waist up and complained in private at their men’s clubs. He just thought he could do anything he wanted.
I guess he can, because he’s still doing it.”
“It doesn’t sound much like he ruined her life though.”
Greg shook his head. “Definitely not. He did ruin her movie career, but it was immaterial. She moved almost immediately to Broadway and was a huge success for nearly ten years. Until she decided Manhattan was no place to raise a big family after having baby number six or something ludicrous like that. She just popped up here in Vegas and got a show of her own. She’s definitely doing okay for herself.”
She didn’t sound like a very good suspect, but it might be a waste to come all the way here and not see someone else who was a handy source of potential information. “Do you think she’d mind if I talked to her for a minute for my book?”
“I don’t know. But I can call her and ask. Follow me to the lobby, and I’ll give her a ring. I don’t have a phone of my own. They create negative vibes.”
They also created negative bank accounts, which was why I didn’t have one. But whatever worked for him. Without comment, Harrison let us by and then fell in behind us. I dropped back and whispered, “Were any of the people he’s mentioned on your list?”
Harrison nodded, but I could feel the displeasure rolling off him in waves. It wasn’t the time to ask him to elaborate, so I shut my trap and followed Greg back into the reflective lobby. We stood off to the side while Greg leaned over the desk and made a call. Apparently he was still close enough to Naomi to know her number by heart. Not that I wouldn’t know it if I heard it once, but I was a bit of a freak when it came to remembering numerical sequences.
Greg shook his head and hung up the phone. “Nah, she isn’t into it. She said she has no more bones to pick with Van, and she doesn’t need to crusade anymore because babies are all the rage in Hollywood right now.”
I was a little disappointed, but honestly not that much. She didn’t fit the profile of a good suspect, anyway. “Well, thanks for checking.”
The Tell-Tale Con Page 13
