Fun and Games

by Duane Swierczynski

  Hardie forced his eyes open. His girl was there, his Topless killer beauty, his demon from the patio, standing on the top step, looking down at him, hideous smile on her face, and a coldness in her cut, bruised, and ruined eyes.

  “Despite what you think, you’re not a hero,” she said. “All you’ve done is waste a lot of time and effort.”

  Hardie coughed up blood.

  “You’re not invincible,” she continued. “You’re just a man. You can be killed.”

  “Yeah, I kn-know,” Hardie said. “Pull up a lawn chair and you can watch it happen, any minute now.”

  The smile stayed frozen on her face, but Hardie could tell she didn’t quite understand the joke. Hardie didn’t either, to tell you the truth. It just seemed like something badass to say.

  Behind her, back in the living room, there were assorted moans and cries. He heard someone call out man insistently, urgently. Someone else—or maybe the same dying man—pushed aside a table and knocked over a lamp, followed by a sharp hollow pop. The sound echoed out into the backyard. “Man,” someone cried again, “get us out of here.”

  Hardie didn’t make the connection for another few seconds. Why would a guy dying of gunshot wounds sound so informal—Man, help me, I’m dying ova hee-uh. Yo, got a gunshot wound, bro. Then it clicked.

  “Wait… your name is Mann?” Hardie asked. “Seriously?”

  Mann didn’t reply. Instead she kicked the .38 out of his hand, then grabbed Hardie by the fabric of his stolen police shirt and started to drag his body across the broken glass and pavement, away from the broken sliding doors. The world moved sideways and started to shake. Mostly because he couldn’t contain the crazy, wheezing giggles that were escaping his chest.

  “All this time I’ve been fighting the Mann?”

  He broke into full-on laughter. He’d never heard anything funnier in his life, honest-to-fucking Christ. Wordlessly, she continued dragging his body, across the dry grass now, the smell of it mixing with the blood and the gunpowder in Hardie’s nostrils.

  “You’re the M-Mann!” Hardie cried out, tears welling up in his eyes.

  And then when he was at the edge of the pool, Mann nudged him over into the water. More concrete steps, meant to help someone adjust to the chilly water gradually. Hardie didn’t need to worry about that. He was mostly numb, anyway, except for the burning sensation in the places where the chlorine touched his open wounds.

  Mann waded in next to him, put a foot on his chest, and pushed him under the water. His laughter was cut off in a messy gulp. Water swirled into his partially open mouth, his back slammed into the bottom of the pool.

  “You can be killed,” she said, though she had no idea if Hardie could hear her. “You’re not immortal.”

  Mann honestly couldn’t pinpoint her first mistake, where it had all started to unravel. She’d made split-second decisions like always. Had written her narratives like always. But this one had spiraled out of control early this morning, on the 101, when a spoiled bitch had shoved broken glass into her eye. She couldn’t even blame Hardie solely for this horrible abortion of a day.

  But it would feel good to kill him, anyway.

  Give her one last bit of accomplishment before…

  … the next part of her career.

  A director has one major fuckup, that director is finished. That did not mean death. Oh no. Mann had heard stories about another director—code name Stanley—who’d botched a production in London once, and rumor had it that they kept Stanley locked away somewhere in a secret prison, toiling away in the darkness, concocting narratives, gaming out possible futures endlessly, relentlessly. Good directors were assets, too valuable to be squandered. They’d keep you working. Working until your body and mind finally gave out.

  Still, it was better than the alternative.

  It was some kind of life.

  Maybe she’d even impress them by killing Hardie. Prove to them that she was still valuable, that, yes, this assignment spiraled out of control but she was still one of the best death directors around. The very thought gave her a strange exhilaration. Some hope was better than no hope. She pushed down on Hardie’s chest with renewed strength.

  Die, you stubborn bastard.

  Aren’t you going to fight back?

  What’s the point? Drowning’s not a bad way to die, so I’ve heard. After you stop fighting it, that is, and let it all happen. Once the air runs out, you faint. You start seeing crystal formations and hearing high-pitched tones and the crystal formations turn into a tunnel and then everybody starts telling you it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.

  You are wrong. Drowning is an incredibly painful way to die. Your head is soon going to feel like it’s going to explode. Your body will go into violent convulsions. So, fight back. There’s still more to do.

  No, there isn’t. It’s over. I’m done.

  You’re being drowned by the woman who threatened to kill your family. What do you think she’s going to do the moment you’re dead? She knows the address. She’ll track them down. She’ll hurt them, just to hurt you after your death.

  No.

  She knows you know this, too. She’s hoping it makes drowning all the more painful.

  NO

  So, fight back. Fight back with everything you’ve got.

  I’ve got nothing.

  Fight!

  I told you, I’ve got nothing.

  Then what’s that in your hand?

  Mann felt him wriggling down there, but she thought it was the start of death spasms. Earlier in her career she’d assisted on a job on the beaches of the Black Sea, a “drowning by misadventure” job, and she’d had to help hold the subject under. She knew the stages; she knew when someone was truly gone.

  So she was surprised when an arm shot up out of the water and slapped her on the wrist. Like she was a schoolgirl being chided.

  Mann was about to say—

  You’re going to have to work a lot harder than that, Charles Hardie—when she looked down and saw that he’d cuffed her.

  The other cuff around his own wrist.

  Then he jerked his arm, and she tumbled forward, splashing into the pool. She coughed up water. Tried to regain her footing. Slipped on the bottom. Tried to steady herself, maintain balance, but her arm was rudely jerked forward again. And again. Suddenly she realized what Hardie was doing. He was pulling himself along the bottom of the pool, one-handed, fingertips digging into the rough cement at the bottom…

  Dragging her to the deep end of the pool.

  If the stubborn bastard made it out that far and was able to drag her body out there—and then he passed out and drowned—she was done. Game over. He was too heavy. Dead weight, cuffed to her wrist, and she’d have no way of breaking through to the surface.

  “No!” she screamed and finally maintained her footing. This tug-of-water had to be won here, where the water was only four feet deep, where she could still draw air into her lungs. She was stronger. She knew that. But he had sheer mass on his side. And stubbornness, the likes of which she’d never encountered before.

  Mann pulled and dug her feet into the cement and pulled and wondered why he hadn’t drowned yet and pulled and, seriously, what was keeping this stubborn son of a bitch alive, jerking at her, even when he had to know this was completely and utterly hopeless?

  As she finally won and reached the edge of the pool, pulling herself out and steadying herself on the metal railing, Hardie’s head broke the surface. He gasped and sucked in air, choked, coughed, and sucked in more air. His eyes rolled around in his head. He choked again.

  Hardie concentrated on forcing water out of his lungs as she dragged him back onto the grass. He could hear sirens closer now. Something cold and hard pressed against his temple. A gun. The .38. Held by Mann, who was dripping wet and shaking with rage. He looked up as she fired and—

  CLICK

  Nothing. A dry fire. He’d emptied the gun. Used the last few bullets on her employees, apparently, who we
re still moaning and writhing in the Hunters’ living room. Hardie wasn’t Dirty Harry. He hadn’t been counting shots and didn’t have a line prepared where he would ask his girl here if she thought he’d fired five or six shots, that it was difficult to tell in all the confusion. Though it would have been funny if he had.

  Mann dropped the gun, let out a sad shriek, and then did something that startled Hardie. She began to laugh. She lay down next to him on the ground and laughed her ass off.

  As they lay there, handcuffed to each other, the police burst in.

  33

  Who is Dirty Harry?

  —Arnold Schwarzenegger, Red Heat

  FOUR HUNDRED miles away in San Francisco, in a hotel suite overlooking Union Square, Mr. Gedney sat and talked to Mr. Doyle about the events of the past nineteen hours. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue sat unopened on the marble desk between them, as well as a fine array of artisanal cheeses and hand-carved meats. The management always sent it up. Neither Gedney nor Doyle ever touched the stuff. Somewhere, a very lucky member of the cleaning staff probably had a kitchen cabinet full of the Blue.

  Down on the square, a lone and mournful trumpet sent jazz notes ricocheting off the buildings. Late commuters scrambled for streetcars or squeezed past tourists trying to do a little shopping before the stores closed for the night.

  “How are we feeling about containment?” asked Doyle. “Do we have a prayer?”

  Gedney shook his head. “Jonathan placed three calls to reporters before he got smart and threw away his phone. I understand they’re already calling car dealerships. I don’t think they quite know what they’re looking for, but that won’t last. This thing is going to blow up. Getting rid of Jonathan now would be pointless, and actually work against us.”

  “And the merger?”

  “I think the merger as we know it is finished. We can rework it without McCoy, but that’s going to take many more months of negotiations and… well, I don’t have to tell you.”

  Until today, the Blond Viking God—actor Allan McCoy—was the lynchpin of an agency deal that could move a lot of assets in the right direction.

  A few weeks ago, they’d launched a quiet exposure assessment. Someone brought up the hit-and-run; it was included on a bullet-point rundown. The likelihood: low. Then came the tip from their source, Andrew Lowenbruck. The actress had told Lowenbruck: it’s tearing me up inside. Destroyed her confidence, her career, her soul. Lowenbruck reported this. The risk suddenly went way up. Especially with Jonathan Hunter’s TV show—which they owned, interestingly enough—pressure was mounting. It wasn’t a question of whether Lane Madden would snap, it was when.

  And how long would it take her to call the Hunters?

  Taking a cold look at the numbers, and gaming out the scenarios, they’d figured the elimination of Lane Madden and the Hunter family would remove the risk entirely and actually tweak potential profit even higher.

  Now all that was lost.

  Doyle was good at looking into the future; he saw that Allan McCoy really had no future.

  “There is an upside,” Gedney said.

  “And that is?”

  “I think we have a new asset to consider. One who’d be ideal for another project.”

  Doyle thought it over.

  “You think so?”

  “Based on what Mann says, he sounds perfect.”

  “Okay. Send a team over to fetch him.”

  34

  My dream role would be some kind of tour de force

  where the character goes through hell

  and still comes out on the other side alive.

  —Bruce Campbell in Cashiers du Cinemart

  HARDIE LAY in the dry grass, bleeding, handcuffed to his demon girl. She’d stopped laughing, thankfully. It had started to creep him out.

  “Now, if I can just wait until the cavalry arrives…,” he said, wondering if Mann would get the reference. If she did, she gave no indication.

  The police arrived, along with a flotilla of EMTs. Somebody used a key on the cuffs and separated the two. Somebody else checked his neck, his vitals, shined a light in his eyes, and then he was loaded onto a gurney and carried through the Hunter home. Psycho Phil and his sister were still groaning—they would probably live. Same deal with the gunmen, which meant that Hardie was losing his touch. Either that, or nobody died in purgatory.

  Of course, all of this was kinda sorta déjà vu–like in a bizarro universe kind of way. Being shot and beaten to the brink of death and then carried through some innocent family’s home. Just like when he was carried through Nate’s home, after all the shooting had stopped three years ago.

  Maybe this was it, finally, at long last—the end credits that had been waiting three long years to crawl across the screen.

  Please, God, let me just fade out and realize that the past three years have been an elaborate imagined fantasy sequence as my dying brain fired off its last few synapses. Please tell me I actually died at Nate’s house, and all of this has been some kind of fire I had to pass through before making it to the next life. Please tell me this was meant to purify my soul, and now I can rest in peace.

  God—if listening—declined to respond.

  Some time passed. Hardie wasn’t sure how long, exactly. A minute maybe. He felt his eyes go out of focus. His mind wandered, like he was on the edge of sleep. His life didn’t flash before his eyes. There were no last-minute revelations or epiphanies. Everything was just gray and soft and numb.

  An EMT appeared next to him. He ripped open some plastic. Pulled out a syringe. Pried off the plastic top. Slid the needle into a glass bottle. Flicked the syringe with a finger. Drew back the plunger.

  “Oh, they’re going to have fun with you,” the EMT said, then slid the needle into Hardie’s arm.

  THANKS & PRAISE

  This book has many fathers, as well as a mother or two. Three of those fathers are named David, strangely enough.

  A little over two years ago, David J. Schow invited me to his birthday party in the Hollywood Hills, and the moment I almost died backing out onto the edge of Durand Drive, I knew I had to set a novel there. The germ of Fun and Games (at least the germ of the setting ) was planted then; it would reach full bloom this past summer when Schow took me on a crazy driving/walking tour of Beachwood Canyon, from the Hollywood Reservoir to the Bronson Caves—the setting for countless genre films over the years. Hardie and Lane didn’t make it over to the caves, but they hit pretty much everything else Schow showed me. I owe him a huge debt. If there were such a title as “locations manager” for a novel, that would be Mr. Schow. Read his short stories (my personal favorite collection: Lost Angels ), read his novels (faves: The Kill Riff, Internecine ), pray your kids grow up half as cool and kind as him.

  My longtime novel-baby daddy (aka literary agent), David Hale Smith, who was right there at conception, as well as on the day I heard the happy news and delivery day. He’s not the kind of agent who paces and smokes out in the lobby; he’s right in the room with you, holding your hand, telling you to breathe.

  I’ll save my third baby daddy, also named David, for the end; you’ll understand when you get there.

  This book’s fourth baby daddy—the one who force-fed me prenatal vitamins and made pickle-and-ice-cream runs at four a.m.—is a non-David. His name is John Schoenfelder, and he’s the editor of Mulholland Books. We kicked this baby around in a Scarface-style restaurant not far from Grand Central Station, then kicked it around a little more in a bustling Irish joint. And thanks to John, this little runt of an idea I had grew up into this big, crazy trilogy you’ll (hopefully) be reading. His creativity knows no bounds; his enthusiasm is like Ebola—one lunch with John and you’ll be bleeding awesome from every orifice.

  Also in the delivery room were Miriam Parker, Wes Miller, Luisa Frontino, Michael Pietsch, and the rest of the stellar Little, Brown/Mulholland Books team. Pamela Marshall’s spot-on copyedits made sure nobody would make fun of this child in school someday. An
d let me thank two members of LB’s extended family, in the “kindly uncle” category: Michael Connelly and George Pelecanos. Their novels set the standard; their kindness and support are legendary.

  If I could hand out cigars, I’d be giving some fancy Cubans to Danny and Heather Baror, Lou Boxer, Ed Brubaker, Angela Cheng Caplan, Jon Cavalier, Joshua Hale Fialkov, James Frey, Sara Gran, McKenna Jordan, Anne Kimbol, Joe Lansdale, Paul Leyden, Ed and Kate Pettit, Eric Red, Brett Simon, Shauyi Tai, and Jessica Tcha, as well as everyone else I somehow forgot to mention. But please forgive me; I’m a new father and kind of frazzled.

  Last but nowhere near least is my real-life family: I could not have written this novel without the patience and support and love of my wife, Meredith, my son, Parker, or my daughter, Sarah. They watched me write this book as we traveled across the United States and back again, and they don’t mind that I have all these baby daddies. Which would freak some people out, to be honest.

  I mentioned a third baby daddy named David; that would be my friend David Thompson. Sadly, I am not able to thank him in person; David passed away unexpectedly at the insanely young age of thirty-eight.

  As I type these words a few short months later… well, fuck. I still can’t believe I’m typing those words. I thought David and I would grow old together, and that someday—if we were lucky—we’d be the cranky old men of the genre, commenting on all of the young whippersnappers coming up, and trading our favorites back and forth via e-book readers or direct mental implants or whatever. David was literally the second person (after my own agent) to congratulate me on my Mulholland deal, which was appropriate, because David’s been there from the beginning. Literally. Whenever I meet someone who’s read my stuff, more often than not—and I am not exaggerating here—it’s because David Thompson put one of my books in their hands and said, “I think you’ll really like this.” I can hear him speaking those words now, in that wonderful Texas accent of his. He spoke those words often; he was a tireless promoter and supporter of crime fiction, and had this uncanny ability to match reader with novel. I don’t say this lightly: I owe my career to him.