by John Niven
‘Please don’t talk to me about this on the telephone.’
‘Are you talking to Artie? Ask him if he wants to come to Palm Springs this weekend!’
The first interlocutor, Mrs Bridget Murphy, excited, giddy. The second her lawyer, Art Hinckley, and the third her husband, Glen. ‘Shut up, Glen,’ Bridget said, stepping out onto the porch and lighting a cigarette in the late-morning sunshine.
At the other end of the phone, somewhere in Pasadena, Artie clamped a hand to his forehead and reminded himself to stay calm. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, OK? Now, without going into too much detail, who did you speak to?’
‘Some English fruit. Steven something.’
‘Not Schitzbaul? Why weren’t you speaking to Schitzbaul?’
‘This guy said he was acting on Lance’s behalf from here on in. What’s the difference?’ Bridget threw a couple of thin cotton dresses into the case splayed open on the bed. She could hear Glen, in the shower now, singing the same words over and over – ‘Going loco down in Acapulco’.
‘The difference, Bridget, is that we told Lance to keep this to himself. Clearly that’s not the case if you’re already talking to some fucking Brit.’
‘What are you worried about, Artie? The guy said everything was cool.’
He said everything was cool.
It did sometimes wake Art Hinckley, attorney-at-law, in the middle of the night with icy, panting terror that he’d chosen to embark on a fifty-million-dollar blackmail plot with a pair this stupid. He’d met Glen Murphy nearly a year ago, after his regular cocaine supplier got pulled over on Ventura Boulevard with half a key and a loaded handgun in the trunk. Glen’s product was a little like Glen himself – weak and unreliable, but Artie still rang him now and then. One night Glen had hung out longer than usual with Artie and the two hookers he was with. After the girls went home, they stayed up, chasing the sun, chopping lines and drinking Canadian Club, and Glen had started to tell Artie the story of his son’s strange friendship with Lucius Du Pre. Artie had heard the rumours about the guy of course. He’d made a point of inviting Glen and Bridget out to dinner shortly after that. She’d broken down crying at the table when she revealed the full extent of young Connor’s friendship with the Emperor of Pop. He remembered Glen, the fucking idiot, actually saying, ‘I’m going to kill him. I’m going to go up there and kill him.’
‘Hey,’ Artie had said, ‘don’t get mad. Get even. In my experience there’s only one way you really hurt these people …’
‘You wanna come with us?’ Bridget was saying. ‘Meet him?’
‘No. No I do not. But do me a favour – record the conversation on your phone. Just in case there’s any … ambiguity later about what gets said.’
‘OK. Relax, Artie. He sounded totally genuine. I can read people.’
‘Bridget, I fu—Artie got a hold of himself. ‘Just call me as soon as it’s over and tell me what happened, OK?’
‘Sure, Artie, later.’
She hung up. He was twitchy, their partner. A full partner too. Bridget wasn’t quite sure he’d merited that. Yeah, he’d come up with the plan. But it was her son who had been, who was getting … Bridget tried not to think about that. The way she looked at it, yes, an awful thing had happened to Connor, but if they’d gone to the cops, then what? Like Artie said, with all the money he had, the representation he could afford, Du Pre would most likely walk. Look at Jackson. Look at OJ. They didn’t even have any definitive proof. Then, once they got the proof, Artie had said, ‘Well, wait a minute. There might be another way to go here …’ They’d get Connor therapy and stuff down the line, when it was safer for him to talk about what had happened. And they could afford it. Besides, the ancient Greeks and stuff, they used to do this stuff with boys Connor’s age all the time. It was, like, culturally accepted in some civilisations. Bridget had read up on all of this shit, online.
She looked around the cramped bedroom of their two-bed one-and-a-half-bath Echo Park bungalow – you could barely see the floor for all the crap, clothes and dishes and magazines. The damp patch working its way up the wall of the hallway. The chipped Formica countertop of the breakfast bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. That brownish stain on the carpet. A few jewels shone amid this dreary clutter: the top-of-the-line sixty-inch LCD with the PlayStation 4. The his-n-hers Rolexes on their dresser. The Mercedes parked out front. All gifts from Du Pre. But, like they say – what have you done for me lately? A car, a TV and a couple of watches in return for sticking his … for … no. Not enough. Not by a long chalk. They were going to get theirs. Big time. Satisfied with her packing for Palm Springs, Bridget turned her attention to what she was going to wear for lunch with this Limey fag. At some Mexican place over in the valley. (She’d been disappointed, hoping for somewhere glamorous – Chateau Marmont or Soho House. Somewhere like she used to go back in her twenties, when it had all seemed possible.) She wanted an outfit that said, ‘Player. Don’t fuck with me.’
‘Going loco down in Acapulco …’ Glen came dancing out of the bathroom, wet, a towel around his waist. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven thirty? Shit, just nearly twelve. We’d better get a move on. Artie says one of us should record the conversation, by the way.’
‘Smart.’
‘What you gonna wear?’ Bridget asked.
‘Shit, I don’t know.’
‘Glen, it’s important. He needs to take us seriously. Wear a suit.’
‘A suit?’ He slid the wardrobe door back and examined his meagre selection. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. Wear the dark grey. The Calvin Klein. It’s not too bad.’ Most of Glen’s suits had seen better days, had been acquired back in the late nineties, when he was moving mad volume. He took it off the hanger, sniffing, singing again. ‘Going loco …’
‘Have you …?’
‘Just a bump. Sharpen me up to deal with this Eurotrash fuck.’
‘Jesus, Glen.’
‘Don’t make a big deal of it. Everything’ll be fine. We’re holding all the cards here, baby. There’s one in there for you.’
‘Maybe after. Oh, fuck it …’
Bridget did the – admittedly small – line and started fixing her make-up in the mirror. She found herself singing too. ‘… down in Acapulco.’ Everything would be fine. Like he said, they were holding all the cards.
EIGHT
The fucking state of this pair. It is all I can do when they walk in the door not to openly piss myself laughing. They’re both wearing sunglasses, even though it is dark in this place, some beaner cave off Ventura, and they’re dressed like extras from a Mexican remake of MiamiVice. I wave to them across the near empty restaurant and they walk over and sit down. I get up and extend my hand.
‘Glen. Bridget. I’m Steven.’
It takes a moment for her as we shake hands, the wheels slowly turning. ‘Aren’t you that guy? You used to be a judge on that show a few years back? American Pop Star?’
‘Very good, Bridget.’
‘Wow. How –’
A waiter appears. ‘Sir, madam, something to drink?’
‘Two margaritas,’ Glen says, sliding into the booth.
But she’s already spotted my glass of ice water and says, ‘No, just some water for me.’
He looks at her oddly, then back to the waiter. ‘I’ll drink hers. Bring two.’ The waiter nods and fucks off. She sniffs, fiddling with her napkin. A coked-up pair of broken alkies. Oh, this is excellent news, I think to myself.
‘How come you’re handling this instead of Schitzbaul?’ she continues. ‘You know he was told not t—’
‘I’m working as a consultant for the record company. They have an interest in seeing this happily resolved too.’
‘Yeah,’ this Glen says. ‘I bet they fucking do.’
‘So, what have you been up to since the show?’ this idiotic prostitute says, trying to keep it pleasant, conversational, thinking we’re going to do a bit of Holl
ywood-style chit-chat before we get down to the pitch.
‘About the money,’ I say, ignoring her. ‘Let’s get serious.’
A beat.
‘The fucking video of that animal raping our kid isn’t serious enough for you?’ Glen growls.
‘You should know that no one’s judging you here. Me? I’d have done the same thing. You go to the police, what happens? You’re in a long, expensive legal battle with a man with nearly unlimited resources.’ (Little do they know, etc.) ‘You go to the press, yeah you might get a few mil for the tape, but your life as you know it is over. You’re in every tabloid in the world every week for the rest of your days. I’d have done exactly what you’re doing. It’s the only way you’ll really hurt him and get to walk away.’ They look surprised at this.
‘Fucking A,’ Glen says. ‘That’s what we figured.’
‘But fifty million? Come on.’
They both look at me for a long beat. I sip my water, pretending this is actually a negotiation. Really we could be talking about two hundred million or fifty pence. It’s just important to let them think that this is real. That this is actually happening. They look at each other. It is Bridget who speaks first. ‘Forty million.’
‘Ten,’ I say.
‘Fuck you,’ Glen says. ‘Thirty. Thirty fucking million.’
I wait a moment, shaking my head, kind of enjoying this fiasco. ‘Twenty,’ I say finally.
They look at each other. ‘We’ll need to talk to Art –’ Glen begins, before she cuts him off.
‘No, we don’t. Twenty,’ she says. ‘But I swear to God, if you –’
‘You’ll need to give us some time of course.’
‘What?’ Glen says, leaning in. I notice that his suit, some aged Calvin Klein piece-of-shit, has hash burns all over it. ‘How much ti—’
‘Guys,’ I say, ‘it’s twenty million dollars we’re talking about here. That takes some planning.’
‘Bullshit,’ she says. ‘Private bank can wire that in sixty seconds.’
‘They can,’ I say. ‘But there’s the question of where the money came from. Traceability. Our mutual friend doesn’t just have an account labelled “blackmail funds”, you know.’
‘How long?’ she asks as their, his, drinks arrive. He attacks the first one greedily. Oh man, this is actually going to be fun. I wait a beat until the waiter retreats again.
‘A week. Maybe two.’
‘Listen to me –’ Glen says, about to get assertive.
‘But,’ I say, looking at her, cutting him off completely, ‘as a gesture of good faith, I have personally arranged for a cash deposit of one million dollars to be paid to you today.’ I put some car keys on the table. ‘There’s a brand-new black Mustang in the car park out back. It’s in the boot.’
‘The what?’
‘The trunk.’ Fucking colonials. ‘You get to keep the car too. Call it a bonus. We want you to know we’re serious about paying you. I’ll be in touch about the balance in a few days. At which point I’ll need to speak with your lawyer, Mr …?’
‘Hinkley. Art Hinkley,’ she says.
‘… Mr Hinkley, to get his assurance that all copies of the recording will be destroyed.’ The idiots look at each other, not sure whether they’ve lost a pound or found a fiver. I stand up, smoothing down my sweater.
‘Hey,’ Glen says. ‘How do we know this ain’t a set-up? We open that trunk and, like, a fucking bomb goes off or something?’
‘Glen,’ I say. ‘Sober up. Catch a fucking grip.’ I lean down on the edge of the table, standing over them, quite close. ‘You’re going to like it, you know. It’s good. I highly recommend it.’
‘Like what?’ she says.
‘The Mustang?’ Glen says.
‘Being rich,’ I say, grinning. ‘Speak to you in a few days. Have some lunch. The fish tacos are excellent.’
I leave, whistling.
With just over two hours before I have to catch the jet out at Van Nuys, I head back over the hills to Soho House for lunch with Schitzbaul. (Picturing, with some pleasure, the Murphys chomping down on some semen-infested taco in the khazi I’ve just left.) As the limo crosses Mulholland I call Trellick to tell him how it went. He’s still nervous despite my incredibly upbeat tone. ‘James,’ I say soothingly, ‘you worry too much.’
Schitzbaul is already there when I arrive, sat at a table on the south terrace of the bar. You can see my apartment building. He’s smoking his tits off and, by the way he stands to greet me, is already working on his second martini. ‘Tell me something good,’ he says as we embrace. I lower my voice, needlessly, it’s after three o’clock and the place is very quiet. ‘Lance,’ I say, doing my best Michael Caine, ‘I’ve got a lovely little idea …’
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve finished speaking, after he’s ordered and drained another martini, after he’s tried to interrupt three times, each time silenced by me raising my index finger warningly, he finally gets to speak.
‘You’re fucking nuts,’ he says.
Wearyingly, I go through a rehash of the exact same conversation I had with Trellick the night before. But my pitch is better now, second time around. Faster. Sharper. Foreseeing any objections before they arise.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I just don’t know …’
I go for the close. ‘Lance,’ I say. ‘Look at me.’ He looks at me. His thinning silver hair, his great, straining belly, his old eyes, eyes that have seen everything, every combination humans can do to each other to elicit pleasure and pain. I feel sympathy for this ancient manager, once a legend in this business, now shackled to a maniac, praying for someone to put him out of his misery. (Remember – every executive career eventually ends in ignominy. No one goes quietly.) ‘I need you to help me sell this to him. Understand me – this is it for you. This is as good as it gets. Get the fuck on board, you fat, useless old bastard, or me and Trellick will personally ensure you go down with the rapist cunt for aiding and abetting. You’ll spend your retirement in San Quentin, bent over in the laundry room, looking over your shoulder at a queue of spearchuckers with ten-inch cocks in their hands, waiting their turn. Are you with me?’
He looks at me, broken. ‘I think we can sell it.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ I say.
We talk a little longer – mostly about practicalities involving Dr Ali – before I leave him, staring into his empty glass, wondering about the living hell he has just signed up for. As I’m striding through the main club, a girl, twenty-something, walks by and, very clearly, very deliberately, smiles coquettishly at me. (Well, as coquettishly as this type of West Hollywood spunk devotee can.) Total Bogs Boiler. The upsides of fame. You just grab ’em by the pussy. You don’t even wait …
When it happened last year, when it came out, the amount of arse I had to listen to, at dinner parties, in restaurants, in meetings. ‘Oh, he’s finished. Over. That’s the end.’ Really? Really, cunt? You know what? It turned out he was only finished in the tiny oatmeal-eating, Guardian-reading corner of the world you live in. It turned out that this was just ‘locker-room talk’, and that the locker room was basically the rest of the fucking planet, the place where the real people live, the people who live on the Daily Mail website, the people who want to hear all the fucking words, the people who buy Ed Sheeran’s records. And there are fucking billions of the cunts. You got women speaking up for Trump. I saw them, on Fox, even on CNN. Getting interviewed in the streets of Idaho, Nebraska and Wisconsin. It turned out that, far from the dinner tables of Manhattan, Silver Lake and Hampstead, there were boilers who actually wanted their pussy grabbed. Who didn’t want to be asked. Who wanted the right to be dragged into the bogs and have their back door kicked in. It turned out that this was part of the American dream too: the right to be used as a flesh lavatory by some player just because he’d been on TV for ten minutes. ‘The struggle’, it turned out, still had some way to go. The resistance still had warm work to do. And I feel for you girls. I feel your
pain. It must be exhausting, a century of feminism and there you are – still struggling, still resisting, as some madman pins you up against the wall of the hotel room, pins you down in the back of the cab, and says, ‘Suck this, you horrible fucking cow’. Meanwhile, there’s a few million of your sisters out there, all saying, ‘Fuck that bitch. Grab this pussy.’
Thinking these fine thoughts, I hear a voice calling out ‘Steven! Hey! Steven!’ I turn warily, not breaking stride, and see a girl with red hair waving to me from one of the banquettes opposite the bar. It takes me a moment to realise it is Chrissy Price, A&R woman. Now here is a DB clearly on her way up to being an RB. I break stride.
‘Hi there,’ I say, walking over, ‘how’s tricks?’
She has it all laid out in front of her – notepad, iPad, trades, coffee pot, the remains of a salad. ‘Just catching up on some work before a meeting,’ she explains, ‘saves me going all the way back to the office.’
‘I see …’ I say. And I do. She really is genuinely working.
Kids today, they do this. Back in my day, it was a little different. I look around the fairly quiet Soho House. There’s a gaggle of models over there, several hot waitresses floating around, the writer Kennedy Marr and a few friends pissed in the corner. Right across the street are the Hollywood Hills – packed with coke dealers – and, behind me, a long, fully stocked bar. Yeah, suffice to say, back in the day, at four o’clock in the afternoon we’d have been fucking ruling this place: smashing cocktails, bugling up, and doing secretaries in the bogs like it was going out of fashion. (Which, of course, it was.) But this was the nineties – you could actually be a convicted paedophile who’d signed one dance single that charted at number 72 (in Holland) and still find someone willing to pay you a hundred grand a year plus car and expenses. ‘What’s funny?’ she says off my expression.
‘Nothing, just reminiscing. Do you mind …?’ I gesture to the banquette next to her.
‘Please …’ she says, scooting over as I slide in, then adding, ‘How’s the jet lag?’ She’s nervous, looking for conversation.
