SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE DEAD
A NOVEL
CHRIS HOLLENBACK
Copyright © 2013 by Chris Hollenback
FIRST EDITION
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Interior design by Vally Sharpe
Cover Design by Michael Short
In loving memory of John Hollenback, Jr. and Cory Sherling
SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE DEAD
1
FRIDAY, JANUARY 7
Hailangelo watched the vague shape of Tess Miller through her clouded and textured bathroom window. It made her look like a tragic figure in stained glass. From outside her apartment in Green Bay, Wisconsin, he gleaned her basic gestures—brushing her red hair, touching up her lipstick, putting on her coat, and heading toward the door. Hailangelo could watch her for hours, patient as a priest hearing confession after confession. Tess came out of the complex and walked to her car in the parking lot. She wore tight jeans with a revealing top and a black wool coat she would undoubtedly leave in the vehicle once she arrived at the club.
He casually approached. “Going to the convent?”
She noticed him but avoided eye contact, ignored the remark, and used a keypad to unlock the door to her black Civic sedan.
“You look so trite,” Hailangelo said.
That got her attention. She opened the door, paused, and sneered at him. “Excuse me?”
“Every girl in every club dresses like you,” Hailangelo said. “They’re like fruit flies: each time I throw out the compost I think I’m rid of them, but then five more flutter around the sink. But you? You could be so much more, with the right mentor.”
She exhaled hard, clearly annoyed, and sat in the driver’s seat. She tried to close the door.
He caught it and held it open. In a warm voice he said, “We haven’t formally met.” He knew her name, knew her schedule—he knew more about her than her own mother did.
“Do I know you?” Tess said, giving the door another tug—to no avail.
“Everybody in town knows me.”
“Except me, apparently,” she said sardonically.
“Ever see the life-like statues of the Hail football players?”
“You mean in the stadium?” She pointed at it, in clear view, next door to her apartment complex. So much for city planning.
“Yes, in the atrium of Hail Stadium.” He could tell by the recognition on her face that she knew exactly what he meant. The statues were landmarks, their images used by the chamber of commerce to attract tourists. “I’m the one who created them.” Fans called him “Hailangelo” and treated him like a celebrity. The Hail made Green Bay famous across the country by bringing home more championship trophies than any other club in pro football history. The team featured his statues prominently on its website. This made him ubiquitous. He leaned down to her. “I would really like it if you posed for my next sculpture.”
Tess sat in the driver’s seat and feigned flattery. “You want me?” He’d seen her do this to other men before. She was so adept at the routine that anyone would think her sincere.
“You’d be the perfect muse...if you did exactly as I say.”
Her face lit up on cue. She knew how to let men down, and could gauge instantly how gentle or harsh she needed to be. “I’d love to, but my mother told me not to pose for strangers.”
“This isn’t posing.” Hailangelo jabbed a hypodermic needle into Tess’s carotid artery. The myriad ways she knew how to tell men no went out the car door. He pressed the plunger, injecting a high dose of hydrocyanic acid into her bloodstream. He covered her mouth with his other hand and waited about thirty seconds for the poison to disable the part of her brain that controlled oxygenation. He whispered to her. “You see? Now you won’t be doomed to wallow in the battle of the clones at the nightclubs. Now you can rise above the bourgeois to the pantheon of elegance.”
He lifted her into the passenger seat and extracted the keys from her hand. His dear mother, may she rest in peace, had given him a humble name. How was she to know then that it would never live up to his stature? He got in, drove her car to his art studio, and parked behind the building. From there, he carried Tess inside. He rang out the thousand hours of peace and rang in his love of darkness.
Three days later, he stood on a wooden stool in his studio, Sergei Rachmaninoff’s haunting Piano Concerto No. 2 rolling and roiling from stereo speakers into the air around him. The recording featured the composer himself playing with the Philadelphia Orchestra, and the inflection and phrasing made Hailangelo feel connected to Rachmaninoff’s greatness. He drank a Black Russian from a tall glass with one hand, dipped a brush in acrylic paint with the other and lightly stroked the cheek of his latest sculpture. He smudged it with his fingertip, blew on the paint to help it dry; he adored each aspect of her countenance, and longed to kiss his statue’s lips.
“Madame X, you are my most gorgeous creation,” he whispered to Tess. He set down the glass and the brush, put her hair into a bun and spritzed it with perfume. Nothing like working with real hair, he thought. He had posed her head turned to one side so she could gaze over her shoulder, wearing a black velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline and skinny silver straps. She stood still with her weight slightly over her right foot.
Hailangelo stepped down from the stool, retreated five steps from Tess and appraised the statue. He glanced at the poster print on the wall, a reproduction of the classic Portrait of Madame X by American painter John Singer Sargent. Hailangelo compared Madame X to Tess, his eyes shifting from one to the other. He smiled. He had created a three-dimensional Madame X with such realism it nearly took his breath away.
Like many artists, he sought recognition for his works, whether he was showering in praise or melting in criticism. His Madame X was different. He knew he had hit on something that could not be denied. She belonged in his exhibit in Manhattan—yet he doubted he could ever let her go.
2
MONDAY, JANUARY 17
Casey Thread entered the locker room of the Green Bay Hail with confidence. He wore a fitted gray Italian blazer with a white pocket square over a white tailored shirt, with slim-fitting jeans. In high school, jocks had mocked him for being a pretty boy who dressed like a faggot. He didn’t view himself that way; he simply followed sartorial advice in magazines. That interest had eventually led to his career in journalism.
Casey approached the team’s superstar player, Todd Narziss, who stood in front of his wooden locker in nothing but a jockstrap. Narziss resembled the statue David on steroids as he removed copious lengths of tape from his wrists. Casey turned from the pungent sweat, sniffed less stale air, and held out his recorder in the vicinity of the athlete’s mouth. He had known Narziss for years, having covered the team as a beat reporter at the Green Bay Times. Casey had long dreamed of writing freelance articles for national magazines, and now he lived it. He didn’t relish the idea of spending more quality time with Narziss, but had taken the assignment anyway because it would pay the rent.
He had ample co
mpetition. Journalists gathered around the superstar athlete, buzzing a little more than usual with the playoffs looming for one of the most popular teams in football. Narziss mumbled something; everyone laughed, likely relieved to catch him during an amiable moment so they could get their requisite daily quote and move on with their lives.
Camera flashes bounced off the smooth wood lockers; Casey squinted and turned away, thankful they hadn’t triggered another of his narcoleptic sleep attacks. He blinked repeatedly and dug the edge of a credit card into his palm to stay awake. Before he could even attempt to wiggle back into the media hoard and ask Narziss questions, Casey’s cell phone rang. He stepped toward the exit across the plush carpet, which featured the Hail’s logo—a navy H enclosed in a solid white circle. The phone identified the caller as Nell Jenner, a friend Casey had met through Elena Ortega a couple years ago. Ah, Elena, with her generous curves and beautiful long black hair. He exited the locker room to answer the call.
“I’m worried about Elena,” Nell said.
Casey had been on dates with Elena and was smitten by her intellect and the descriptions of her native Ecuador and the Andes surrounding her hometown of Quito. Her tales of Colonial architecture, lazy palm trees, old Ecuadorian women in trilby hats, and sculptures by Caspicara had enchanted the reporter from the Midwestern flatlands. At her apartment, she had even made him a bowl of her mami’s fanesca, a twelve-bean soup. She had insisted her version didn’t do justice to the original, but he found it savory. Elena could be charming, as in the way she would wistfully describe the soup as making her feel at home: “The preparation, tradition, aroma, and taste jettison me back to childhood.” Casey had felt for her when she’d wished her mami would follow her to the States, rather than stay with her abusive father. “And for what?” Elena had asked Casey. “To clean hotels and fold towels into swans, all for a pittance?”
“Worried?” Casey said now into the phone. “Why?”
“She was supposed to meet me for drinks Saturday night,” Nell said. “She never stands me up.”
“She’ll turn up. You should have called me; I’m a stellar wingman.”
“When you don’t fall asleep. I had work to do anyway. But I had a hard time concentrating on it.”
“Elena didn’t answer her phone?”
“No,” Nell said, “and you know how she is.”
“Yeah. If she doesn’t pick up, she at least texts back.”
“In seconds.”
“Well,” Casey said, “if something’s wrong, you should know.” Nell was Elena’s best friend.
She sighed. “I hope she didn’t have some sort of family crisis.”
“She didn’t go back to Quito, did she?”
“Not that I’m aware. I’d think she’d have at least texted me. Or put something on Facebook. I didn’t want to overreact, but by Sunday, I was really worried. She has been known to hang out with some shady characters.”
“You, for instance,” Casey said.
Nell scoffed. “Yeah, I’m shifty all right. Today, I called the Morris family’s house.”
“Where Elena babysits.” Casey rubbed his eyes, fatigued as usual. He could use a cappuccino.
“Right. I spoke to Mrs. Morris, who told me that Elena had been helping her by taking Shantell to daycare every weekday for the last two years. It’s a huge deal because Rihanna is a single mom. Today, Elena didn’t show up.”
Casey thought of a photo Elena had shown him on one of their dates, of a statue called La Virgen de Quito, the one that adorned the top of a volcanic hill known as El Panecillo, overlooking her home town. The 141-foot-tall statue depicted a winged Madonna figure stepping on a snake. Elena adored the statue, not just for its beauty, but because she believed it watched over her and her city to keep them safe. Casey wondered if she was safe now.
“I bet you want to find her as much as I do,” Nell said.
“Me?” Casey said innocently.
“Come on, Casey. I know you two dated.”
“Once or twice.” Four times, actually. Casey had been a perfect gentleman. They hadn’t even kissed on their initial dates. He had hoped that might change at the party last Friday at the White House, the residence of one of the Hail’s office employees, on Pennsylvania Avenue in Green Bay. The employee, LeRoy “Skeeto” DeWillis, had been one of Casey’s best friends since kindergarten.
Skeeto was the team’s PR director and was supposed to keep the players out of trouble. Except he also wanted to be the players’ friend. So, like a father who throws drinking parties in the basement for his underage teenagers, Skeeto had turned the White House into the local hangout for some Hail players, a place they could gather away from public scrutiny. Casey once asked Skeeto why he would take on that risk, and Skeeto said that if the players messed up, at least he’d be there to clean it up before the police or media arrived. No offense to Casey—Skeeto trusted him. In fact, Skeeto had offered him the use of a bedroom during the party. That night, dance music had thumped downstairs out of surround sound speakers and subwoofers, and Elena had asked Casey if he wanted to go upstairs so they could have a normal conversation without yelling. On the way, the U2 song “Mysterious Ways” came through the speakers, and Casey said, “Finally, a good song.” Elena had said her favorite U2 album was The Joshua Tree. Casey liked it, but he preferred Achtung Baby.
As they arrived at the top of the stairs and walked down the hallway, she’d said, “I’ve always wanted to see U2 live.”
“I saw them once.”
“Recently?”
“Actually my mother took me, back when I was 15, when they were supporting their album Pop.”
“Extraordinary. That album’s underrated.”
“I know. Bono and The Edge did an acoustic version of ‘Staring at the Sun’ that I’ll never forget.”
She had bitten her lower lip. “It would be great to see them together.”
Casey had resisted the urge to frantically take out his phone and search for their tour schedule. Breathe. Your most important breath is your next one.
They had entered the bedroom and he had turned on a lamp.
She’d smiled and said the light reminded her of home.
“Your parents have a lamp like this?” There was nothing fancy about it; it was a simple silver stem with an off-white shade.
“A long time ago, Quito earned the nickname Luz de America,” she’d said, “Light of America—because it was the first city to declare independence from Spain. So when I see a light like this, yes, it reminds me to be brave, aggressive, and to insist on taking what’s rightfully mine.” She’d leaned in and kissed him, her tongue soft in his mouth. They had started breathing heavier and heavier, holding each other closer and closer. She’d removed his shirt. What Casey lacked in bulk he made up for in toned abdominals. His entire body had tingled when she pushed him back on the bed, removed her blouse and gave him a “come hither” look.
As she’d unfastened her brassiere, the cups barely clinging to her breasts, most men would have been ready for liftoff, and become overzealous puppies licking and pawing at her. Casey? He’d had a narcoleptic attack.
Now he snapped out of his reverie, walked down the hallway to distance him from the Hail locker room, and asked, “Did you call the police?”
“I just did,” Nell said. “They’re going to check out her apartment. I figured I’d stop by to see if I can tell what’s going on, or answer questions they might have. Care to join me?”
“Yes, I’m at Hail Stadium now,” he said. Elena’s apartment was a block away. Nell lived on the other side of town, so Casey would have time to get a few more quotes from Narziss before walking to Elena’s place. He’d catch up with the athlete later during their scheduled one-on-one interview.
“Great,” Nell said. “See you in fifteen.”
Casey re-entered the locker room. He could barely keep his eyes open, but had no time for a nap. Narziss held court, answering questions and mugging for the video cameras. Casey w
riggled through the mob to hold out his recorder close to Narziss’s face. Instead, he fumbled it to the ground. The cassette ejected, bounced, and landed on Narziss’s size-twenty Reebok. Embarrassed, Casey reached for the tape.
But the superstar grabbed it first. “Nice hands,” Narziss said, tapping the cassette on Casey’s forehead. Journalists held their highlighter-sized digital recorders and laughed like bar patrons at happy hour. Most of them wore jogging suits or golf garb. Narziss grinned at his own cleverness. “Ever hear of a digital recorder, Thread?”
Casey snatched the tape, rewound the spool with his pinky, and inserted it back into the recorder. “Can’t trust digital.”
Narziss guffawed. “Yeah, like the Internet: just a fad.”
Reporters chuckled. Awfully charitable of them. Casey hit the record button, sniffed, shuffled his shoulders and held the recorder for a quote. “A fad, like how those co-eds say you fondled them at the bars?”
The journalists chortled.
Narziss opened his mouth but nothing came out. He glanced side to side and ran a hand through his flat-top haircut.
Casey’s confidence swelled. The room went silent, except for a few snickers. Beat reporters couldn’t afford to tell off a Hail player—access to interviews meant everything. If they crossed a player, the Hail Public Relations Department could ban them from the locker room. For Casey, being a freelancer granted freedom. He didn’t burn many bridges but, since his job spanned a cornucopia of cities and topics, he could afford to stand up to jerks. Narziss was the kind of testosterone bomb who wouldn’t respect Casey unless he challenged the dominant lion like an upstart hyena.
Narziss scowled—he’d learned it from his father, a first-generation German who taught math and coached football, and his Austrian mother, who worked at a Chicago canning plant. Casey had met them once at a post-game reception. They didn’t like him either. Narziss made fists. “Get out of my face, Thread!”
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