by John Niven
‘Terry’s on it,’ I say. This being all that needs to be said. ‘Come on.’ I pick my jacket up off the back of the chair. ‘Let’s go get lunch. I’m fucking starving.’
‘Jesus,’ Trellick says. ‘I don’t think I could eat a thing. Fucking knot in my stomach. None of this bothers you?’
‘None of what bothers me?’ I say, looking for my car keys, distracted.
‘Oh, I dunno, manipulating share prices? A little insider trading? Blackmail? Perpetuating the biggest hoax in the history of popular music? Take your pick.’
‘Yeah, hell of a day at sea, huh?’ I say.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Look, guys,’ Chrissy said, her voice low in a corner of the Chateau garden, near the tiny smoking area (the one that frequently contained the only four smokers in LA), ‘I still love the music, and, Thorsten, I know it was a long time ago. We all do stupid stuff when we’re young. But that’s the way the company feels right now. Politically, it’s just too difficult …’
‘Fucking hell, love,’ Rent said, ‘tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers and all that.’ He laughed, reached for his drink, trying for levity.
‘It was twenty fucking years ago!’Thorsten offered, again. ‘I was just a fucking kid.’ Unusually he was drinking, throwing another Patron back. The other two members of Norwegian Dance Crew grunted at him in Norwegian.
Yeah, Chrissy thought. A fucking Nazi kid. ‘I think you’re both right,’ she said. ‘And if this was a hundred grand we’d be signing the contracts tonight. But, a mil and a half? It’s a big news story, the board and all that. The shareholders … I’m sorry.’ She kept her tone cool as she got up and signalled for the check, having drunk precisely half her glass of sparkling water. (All of this per the Stelfox hand-book for this meeting: be firm, neutral, don’t drink, leave early.)
‘Hey,’ Rent said, ‘leave it. We’ll get the check. We got plenty of other deals on the table, Chrissy.’
‘We go with fucking XL then. Like we wanted to,’ one of them – Sven the Viking – sneered at her.
Chrissy just smiled, snapping her bag shut. (Celine, red leather. A gift from Steven.) ‘They’re a great label,’ she said. ‘Good luck. Bye, guys.’ She headed off, her heels ticking on the flagstones.
A few seconds later Rent caught up with her in the lobby, literally grabbing her by the elbow. ‘Chris, Chrissy, wait up.’ She turned.
‘Danny.’
‘This is final then?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Where’s Steven in all this?’
‘Nowhere. It’s my deal, Danny.’
He held her gaze. ‘Right. Give him my best, eh?’
‘Sure.’ Chrissy turned and headed down the stairs. She’d catch up with Steven later, after her doctor’s appointment.
Rent walked slowly back towards the band’s table, where he could already hear some debate breaking out between the three members. Voices being raised in their native language. Just go back to XL? You stupid Scandi cunts. Like that wasn’t the first fucking thing he’d thought of. If he heard the words ‘Richard knows you called. He’ll get back to you’ one more time …
Now Danny would have to begin the tedious process of ringing around all the long-rejected labels, the second-tier contenders, cap in hand. Forelock tugged. Bollocks. He was trying to remember exactly who he hadn’t been cool with to the point of no return when he was snapped out of his reverie by shouting in Norwegian as he approached their table. A few heads turning to look. Thorsten and Erik, jabbing fingers at each other now as the band’s argument climaxed, Thorsten shouting something at Erik, throwing a huge shot of tequila back, and then he was getting unsteadily to his feet, smashing his heels together, extending his arm, pointing those rigid fingers skywards and shouting ‘HEIL HITLER!’
Oh fucking hell.
THIRTY-FOUR
At the exact moment Steven Stelfox had been parking his Bentley GT in a Pasadena mini-mall, a little over eight thousand miles to the east, it was 6 p.m. and movement of another kind was afoot: Lucius Du Pre was hiding in some bushes, sweating like, well, like Lucius Du Pre hiding in some bushes, as he heard the trundle of tyres on gravel and took a deep breath. He’d timed it well. Ali, his doctor turned chemical jailer, was finishing up on the back nine of the Sultan’s golf course. The Sultan and his loathsome son were away for the night, at a horse race somewhere. Around 5 p.m. Lucius had ordered a vast amount of food to be brought to his suite (well, it would once have been vast. Nowadays the marathon of fried chicken, potato salad, slaw, fries, beans, corn, gravy and biscuits followed by a tub of ice cream or a box of Dove bars simply constituted his nightly dinner) and left word that he was not to be disturbed. He put a DVD of Fantasia – his favourite – on repeat and checked the essential kit he’d packed.
1,100 dirhams in cash.
3,642 US dollars in cash.
1 × false passport in the name of Fergal McCann.
1 × Platinum Amex in the name of Fergal McCann.
1 × lip balm.
1 × blister pack Valium.
He’d caught his reflection in the mirror as he slipped out of his room and had briefly had time to reflect that, yes, he did look totally crazy: a 200lb half-black man wearing wraparound Gucci shades and a billowing kaftan with a fanny pack lashed around his waist.
He crouched down further now among the sweet-smelling eucalyptus leaves and watched as the laundry guys got out of the van and made their first run, down to Ali’s suite. (And Ali’s laundry needs were voluminous, going through two golf outfits a day most days.) Here they came now (two minutes twenty-two seconds later, slightly faster than usual), jabbering to each other in Arabic as they swung the heavy hamper into the truck, climbed up and pushed it along. They jumped down and strolled back into the palace. This trip, to Lucius’s quarters, would take them a minimum of three minutes and fifty seconds.
Lucius sprang into action.
Yes, ‘sprang’ was a stretch here. ‘Sprang’ was pushing it. Lucius, a man once described as ‘the most athletic performer since Michael Jackson’, scuttled out of the bushes looking like a giant constipated crab. He threw himself up onto the tailgate of the laundry van and, groaning, lashing more sweat with the effort, his forearms straining and aching, finally managed to pull himself up onto the wooden floor of the van.
He lay on his back for a second, panting, before getting onto his knees and crawling towards the huge wicker hamper, lifting the lid, smelling something troublingly fragrant, and was about to congratulate himself on the whole thing having taken less than a minute when he patted his waist and stomach and dropped to his knees. The fanny pack! Gone. He ran back to the tailgate – there it was. Lying on the gravel, torn off by the effort of pulling himself into the van. Oh Lord, help me. He jumped back down and grabbed it, the mad crab glancing around frantically, no one to be seen in the gathering Arabian dusk, but voices audible from somewhere down the service hallway behind him, the laundry guys, coming back. Lucius felt a rush of adrenaline – like he used to feel when he ran onto the stage of a stadium, like he used to feel when Ali pushed the plunger on a sweet shot of candy – as he leapt back up into the van a second time, ran the length of it, lifted the lid again and threw himself inside, pulling damp, soiled clothes over him. He tried to still his pumping heart, slow his breathing as he heard the men at the tailgate, climbing up and coming towards him. He heard their guttural chatter, heard the second laundry hamper (the one he’d been sure to overfill, to make as heavy as possible) thumping down beside his, their footsteps banging on the wooden boards, their feet crunching on the gravel as they hopped back down and then their voices receding once more as they made their final run into the house, for the kitchen whites.
Another couple of minutes passed, Lucius chewing on a calming Valium there in the dark, his nostrils full of the sweet, fungal smell of damp polo shirts, chinos, socks and underpants. Then the sound of doors being slammed, the vibration as an engine kicked into life beneath him, and the cru
nch of tyres as they moved off down the gravel. Once the van was moving at speed Lucius climbed carefully out of the hamper. He had to do it right away because he had no idea how long they would be driving. Crouching unsteadily in the darkness of the swaying vehicle, he began to transfer much of the contents of his heavy hamper, the boots and leather jackets and the rest of his wardrobe he’d packed in there, to Ali’s far lighter one. Then he got into his own, just covering himself with a few towels and sheets, equalising the weight between the two, and closing the lid.
You see, he’d thought of everything.
They had been driving for about forty-five minutes, he reckoned from the glowing green hands of his Rolex in the darkness. Lucius entertained himself by giving free play to the voices in his head. With many a ‘GRR!’ and an ‘OOMF!’ and an ‘ANNG!’ he conversed with Jesus. Jesus was trying to tell him something, something he had to do. Lucius had even made up a little song to help him. ‘I love Jesu, he loves me. Me and Jesu are so happy!’ He sang the comforting refrain over and over as Jesus told him things.
And then they were turning, slowing down, the tug of brakes as they came to a stop and then the clank and clang of doors opening, voices.
They lifted his basket, one of them at each end, and he felt himself rise into the air a few inches, and then a thump as he was dropped back down. He heard a few puzzled words being exchanged in Arabic and, for a second, he feared the worst – the lid opening, the towels and sheets being thrown back, the astonished faces. But no. Grunting as he was lifted back up and half carried, half dragged to the tailgate. A heavier thump as he was dropped onto concrete, sending a smashing jolt through his back, almost causing him to cry out in pain. Then lifting again, being carried further and then dropped again. There was light now, seeping through the thick wicker, and the sound of activity, shouting, machinery, men. He could smell chemicals, disinfectant. He heard the men exchanging a few words with a woman and then the footsteps were fading away and it was quiet. He waited. And waited. The noise of machinery was constant, but far in the distance. This would be the most difficult part, but he had to do it. Taking a deep breath, Lucius pushed the lid of the hamper up just an inch and peered out. He was in a long concrete corridor, lit by fluorescent tubes overhead, surrounded by dozens of other laundry baskets. At the end of the corridor, in a brightly lit area, he could see people in overalls and facemasks working, upending wicker baskets and sorting through the contents in front of huge industrial washers.
Behind him, much closer, was a loading dock and, beyond it, a yard. Beyond that, open streets. Freedom. Lucius climbed out of his basket, checked his fanny pack was secure, and turned towards the loading dock. From nowhere a young boy came around a corner and almost walked straight into him.
The boy and Lucius regarded each other. He was about sixteen, Lucius guessed, carrying two tubs of some kind of detergent. They both stood there for a moment, frozen. The boy took a step back, clearly on the verge of raising the alarm. ‘No! No!’ Lucius said, pressing a finger to his lips as the boy’s mouth started to open. Lucius fumbled, hurriedly scrabbling at the zipper of his fanny pack, and took out a strange banknote. He held it towards the boy.
The boy looked at it – ten dirhams.
Lucius smiled – hopefully, encouragingly – as he proffered the three-dollar bribe.
It was fair to say Lucius and cash transactions had not been on intimate terms since the late 1970s. He remembered a recording session a few years back, one of his last. The engineer, the producer and the musicians had wanted things, small things, cigarettes, beer, some sandwiches, and a tape-op was being dispatched to fetch them. Unusually Lucius had had some cash on him that day and in a show of noblesse oblige he’d offered to pay for everything, graciously handing the tape-op a ten-dollar bill, telling him to keep the change. Later, after Lucius had expressed puzzlement as to why his largesse had received such a lukewarm reception, Lance had explained to him that in 2012 ten dollars wasn’t really leaving much change after beer and snacks for eight people. Somehow this memory came back to Lucius now, in the breeze-block corridor of a Middle Eastern industrial laundry, as the boy stared nonplussed at the banknote. Lucius took a huge wad of dirhams out – pinks and browns and blues – and thrust them towards the kid. The boy paused for a second, then inclined his head in a bowing motion as he took the notes and said, ‘Allah yusallmak.’
‘Praise Jesus,’ Lucius whispered, bowing back, adding for good measure, ‘PURRR! GRRALL!’
Ninety seconds later Lucius Du Pre stood at the intersection of a busy city street, experiencing something he hadn’t experienced in almost forty years.
Being alone, out in the world.
He was near some kind of market, or bazaar. The air was thick with the smell of spices and grilling meats, and Lucius realised he was ravenous, having sacrificed dinner as part of his grand plan. He briefly considered grabbing an armful of kebabs to sustain him on the next leg of the journey but remembered that he was technically on the run. No time for a picnic. He was also trying to come to terms with another strange sensation – no flashbulbs popping. No shouting, screaming mobs. He was getting the odd strange look from people but he soon realised they were probably the kind of looks given to a 200lb man in a kaftan with a fanny pack strapped around his waist, rather than an international megastar who’d sold hundreds of millions of records. While all of this was certainly hurtful to the ego it – and the encroaching darkness – definitely helped him waddle unmolested for the few hundred yards taking him to his next goal: the long line of taxi lights he could see at the far end of the square.
‘The airport. NGGG!’ Lucius said, squeezing his bulk into the back seat of the tiny, foul-smelling car. The driver barked something in Arabic. Lucius repeated the word, doing the mime – arms extended, making the whooshing sound of jet engines, saliva bubbling on his lips, holding up another fistful of local currency.
The guy nodded and turned the key in the ignition.
THIRTY-FIVE
This is the one, Terry thought. He’d been all over the area for the last week, driving along single-lane tracks, taking turnings off to ranch houses and cabins, knocking on doors. He always used the same story – his GPS wasn’t working up here, could they give him directions? He’d met a fair few cranks, eccentrics. The kind of people who tended to live off the grid way up in the Pinto Mountains. But this one, Mr William Tandy, he was ideal. For the last three days, Terry had observed his habits, from a distance, through powerful German binoculars. He was in his sixties and lived alone. His place was three miles from the crash site, set on around five acres, his nearest neighbour over a mile away. In the early evening, before it got too cold, Tandy would sit out drinking on the porch of his cabin. Terry had done a records search and discovered that the man had no living relatives, another huge bonus when it came to dealing with blowback. (No tearful relatives bothering the police endlessly.) He’d done other homework too – it sat in stacks of files on the back seat. He poured himself some more coffee from his flask and watched the cabin and waited for night to start falling. He was good at waiting and planning. You had to be. They were 80 per cent of the job. Finally, the moon started to rise and Tandy, Terry saw before he lowered the binoculars, finished his beer and went inside.
Terry turned the key and drove the mile or so down the track before pulling into Tandy’s drive. He parked in a copse of pine trees, not visible from the road, got his kitbag out and strolled up the path. Three sharp raps on the wooden door. A muffled voice from within, footsteps, and then pale yellow light spilling over Terry as the door opened. ‘Can I help you?’ Tandy said.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you –’ Terry’s clipped English accent an instant point of entry – ‘but I just hit a deer and it’s rather messed up my car. Do you think I could use your phone?’
‘Damn,’ Tandy said. ‘You gotta watch out for ’em. Big buck through the windshield and that’ll be all she wrote, young fella.’
‘Was a bit of a shock a
ctually.’
‘Well, come in. Come on in.’ Tandy led him inside and Terry brought his fist up with the syringe in it and plunged it into the back of Tandy’s neck. The old man turned, an expression of outrage and surprise on his face, his hand already going to his neck. Before he could utter whatever expletive was forming on his lips the powerful tranquilliser kicked in. Terry caught Tandy before he hit the floor. Didn’t want the old boy hurting himself just yet. Terry carried him across the room and laid him on the sofa. He took the place in – dusty and crammed with bric-a-brac. Lots of books and photographs, the accumulation of a lifetime. A big stone fireplace, not yet lit.
Along the hall, open the door, and down into the basement. Terry knew from the schematics he’d examined as part of his research that there was a basement, that had been another essential requirement. It was chilly down here, but there was a little pot-bellied stove in the corner. Ideal. Terry dragged a mattress down from the spare bedroom and then went back upstairs for its owner, carrying the unconscious Tandy down over his shoulder and laying him gently on the mattress. Using webbing, Terry tightly bound him to the mattress and gagged him with a piece of towelling and some duct tape. It took three trips to the car to get all his files. Then Terry really got to work.
William Tandy woke up a few hours later – the middle of the night – and struggled to orientate himself, his vision swimming. He seemed to be in the basement. It was cold. He couldn’t move. Was he dreaming? He seemed to remember opening the door to a man. A British man. Cultured-sounding. His vision cleared and he looked up to see the man. He was in the process of sticking something onto the wall. Tandy looked around – Jesus Christ. Nearly every available inch of his basement walls had been covered in stuff: posters, newspaper cuttings and the like. They were almost all of a singer, someone he recognised. That fella who had died some months back, in a helicopter crash, not far from here. They’d closed some of the roads. But not all the pictures were of him. That was, what was …? Tandy looked at another picture on the wall: two men, engaged in an act of sodomy. Another poster of a nude man. And another. Now there, on top of that old dresser: five or six big dildos. What the hell? Tandy made a grunt of outrage. The man turned around from his work.
