Loser's Town Read online

  ‘Where the hell did you learn to do that?’ Spandau asked Terry.

  Terry just said, ‘Misspent youth,’ and went back to his corner, where he pulled out a paperback copy of Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales and began to read as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Beautiful, ain’t he?’ Matt said to Spandau. ‘Anybody else had tried to do that, we’d’ve had a fucking riot. It’s weird, but the little shit’s size is actually an advantage. He goes up against a 250-pound bruiser and when the guy can’t lay a glove on him, the bigger guy looks like a fucking idiot. I know real hard-asses who won’t mess with the guy because he embarrasses ’em. They’d rather get the crap beat out of them by somebody their own size than dance around with Terry. It’s like fucking ballet.’

  It was a point well taken, and Spandau used Terry often. Or at least whenever Terry felt like working. Coren didn’t like him, however. ‘He’s a liability, that drunken little bogtrotter,’ Coren said to Spandau. ‘You want him, then he’s your fucking responsibility. But it’ll come out bad one day, I’m warning you now. The little bastard likes trouble.’

  ‘I’ve seen him go out of his way to avoid it.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s always right there when it starts, isn’t he? Those three guys he clobbered in Wrightwood, does it ever occur to you he could’ve just walked out of there? That he waited until one of them touched him and he could claim self-defense? Did you ever think maybe he wanted them to start something? No,’ said Coren, ‘there’ll be some shit to pay yet, you mark my words. Meanwhile keep him out of my sight.’

  Spandau was approaching Terry’s sailboat when he heard a woman yell inside, then come stomping out onto the deck. She was beautiful and young. Terry liked actresses. This one was half-dressed and trying to pull on her clothes. She was unused to the boat and kept stumbling over things. Finally she tried climbing onto the dock and couldn’t make it. She glared at Spandau.

  ‘Well, are you going to stand there like an idiot or are you going to help me?’

  Spandau helped her up and she finished pulling on her clothes.

  ‘I take it Terry is home?’ he asked her.

  ‘Are you a friend of the miserable little son of a bitch? Or maybe a fucking bill collector. He owes everybody in the county. I hope you break his goddamn legs. Let me watch, will you? No, Jesus, don’t tell me. All I can say is, if you already know him and you’re coming back, you deserve whatever happens to you.’

  Terry popped up on deck.

  ‘Eve, my darling girl,’ he said in a thick Irish brogue, ‘you can’t be leaving me?’

  Eve looked around for something to throw. She took off her shoe again and threw that at him. He ducked, but she rapidly threw the other one and hit him.

  ‘Ouch!’ Terry grabbed his forehead, where the shoe had left a mark.

  ‘Ha! I’m sorry I didn’t blind you.’

  Eve hobbled barefoot down the splintery dock toward the parking lot.

  ‘A minor domestic dispute,’ Terry said. ‘Accused me of sleeping with her best friend. Can you imagine.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Oh, of course. But it strikes me as damned bad manners that the bitch should have told her.’

  Spandau made his way onto the boat and sat down in a lawnchair. Terry scratched his bare chest and watched Eve walk off into the sunset. Terry was a romantic and fell in love easily and frequently. Women loved him as well, though they never quite managed to like him. He seemed to collect them the way he collected belts in various obscure martial arts.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you,’ Spandau said to him.

  ‘I don’t want one,’ Terry said. ‘Last was that fellow with the baseball bat. Had to have the cap on my left molar replaced.’

  ‘That was your fault. I warned you.’

  ‘Yes, but your timing was imperfect. One somehow expects a warning before and not after.’

  ‘You broke his arm.’

  ‘Well I had to take the bloody bat away from him, didn’t I? No, David, me lad, you hang around with the wrong type of people. I think it’s skewing your world view. Have a drink anyway and then run along home. Eve’s girlfriend is due in the next little bit.’

  Spandau followed Terry down into the cabin. Spandau was a big man and he didn’t like boats. He fumbled around looking for a place to sit where his head wasn’t in danger. Terry darted about like a water sprite and fetched up a bottle of Jameson’s. He scurried about a while longer and located two Waterford crystal glasses. Terry took his drinking seriously.

  ‘How the hell do you live in this place? It’s like a shoebox.’

  ‘It’s paid for and cheaper than an apartment. And one can put to sea at the first sign of irate husbands or overaggressive creditors. Slainte!’

  They drank.

  ‘I have a client who’s being blackmailed.’

  ‘Someone juicy, is it?’

  ‘Bobby Dye.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Terry, delighted.

  ‘I need your help. You ever hear of a guy named Richie Stella?’

  ‘Heard but never made the acquaintance of. Is he blackmailing Dye?’

  ‘There’s a roll of film we need to get back.’

  ‘My suggestion is that you find a polite way of throwing your client to the wolves. Stella is connected to the mob. But of course you already know that, hence that melancholy look you get.’

  ‘You’re the only one I can trust.’

  ‘Which means you need some stupid mick to get his head bashed in for you.’

  ‘The money is good.’

  ‘What good is money without peace of mind, I ask you? This sounds neither peaceful nor healthy. You find yourself in a rare and ugly situation.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’re as likely as me buggering the holy Pope himself to get all the copies back.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Double your last fee, by the way.’

  Terry smiled. ‘Is it the effects of drink or did the conversation suddenly become more interesting?’

  ‘And perhaps a healthy bonus if we can pull this off.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what you’re going to do? Or should I be contrite for asking?’

  ‘Well, I do have the seedlings of a cunning plan.’

  ‘Ah. And would this cunning plan involve the pride of the McGuinns?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘I suppose I might as well hear it, before I politely refuse. I’m a gentleman of leisure, after all.’

  ‘As you say, good luck getting all the copies back. On the other hand, Richie is onto a gold mine here and he’s not interested in showing them around. He’s not about to surrender them all, but he’s not likely to let anybody else see them either. Stop me if I’m not making sense.’

  ‘Oh dear heart, if I was held to that you’d fain utter a word.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s only Richie who can tie Bobby to the dead girl, right?’

  ‘There’s a dead girl?’ Terry asked.

  ‘A very dead one.’

  ‘How Dashiell Hammett,’ said Terry. ‘Pray go on.’

  ‘So we need to think of some way to discourage Richie from ever using the film.’

  ‘Ah, grand. It’s murder and mayhem you’re up to now. And me sitting here starting to get bored.’

  ‘What if we blackmail him in return.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Terry, ‘and you’ve pictures of him having carnal knowledge of the family dog?’

  ‘Not yet. But he’s got his fingers into all kinds of grungy little pies. There’s bound to be some dirt we can use.’

  ‘If you’ll pardon my suggestion,’ offered Terry, ‘why don’t we just kneecap the filthy cocksucker, wrap him in baling wire and drop him off a bridge? Call me sentimental, but that’s the way we’d do it back on the Old Sod.’

  ‘That was my backup plan.’

  ‘You Yanks lack all sense of proportion. You’ve no sense of efficiency or political necessity. It’s the fatally cold beer that does it.’

  ‘Be that as it may
, we need to dig up something on Richie Stella.’

  ‘And this would involve someone sticking their nose into his potato patch?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘I begin to see the drift of this conversation. And the minute someone starts asking the questions, wouldn’t our Mr Stella know about it and become perturbed?’

  ‘Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘Only if you don’t mind getting just a wee bit kneecapped and tossed off a bridge yourself.’

  ‘Nah, Richie’s no killer. At least not until the last resort. He doesn’t want that much heat, and, anyway, it’s not his style. He’d have somebody lean on them first.’

  ‘But what if he’s pushed? He might panic.’

  ‘One could but hope.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s a dandy plan, isn’t it? Throw Richie into a snit and hope he does something stupid that we can nail him on? Aggravate him until he tries to kill you? David, me old son, there’s no career for you in diplomacy.’

  ‘Actually I was thinking more along the lines of letting him try to kill you. While I pursue other avenues of inquiry.’

  ‘That’s right, sacrifice the bloody little bogtrotter. History only repeats itself.’

  ‘Erin go bragh,’ said Spandau.

  ‘Get stuffed, you miserable gobshite. Where am I supposed to initiate this suicide mission?’

  ‘There’s a girl who manages the club. You might start there.’

  ‘You think she’ll talk to me?’

  ‘No, but it’ll certainly put a bug up Richie’s ass when she tells him about it.’

  Terry raised his glass in a toast. ‘To the blessed St Teresa of Ávila and the souls of all fallen warriors!’

  ‘Here, here!’

  ‘And to the filthy swine Richard Stella, may God not grant him any more wit than he has at this moment.’

  They drank.

  Eight

  Terry and Eve stood in line outside the Voodoo Room.

  ‘Why am I here? Tell me again,’ Eve demanded.

  ‘Because you’re gorgeous, me darling. And you’ll meet lots of important folk once we’re inside. You’ll be free as a bird to fly about, charming all the royalty of Hollywood and finally becoming the star you deserve to be. I’m doing this because I’m mad for you.’

  ‘You’re doing this because you’re an ugly little hooligan and they wouldn’t let you in otherwise.’

  ‘That cuts me to the bone, though I couldn’t fault your suspicions,’ he said.

  ‘As long as you know that if I meet a director, I’m leaving your ass.’

  ‘And won’t I treasure the fleeting moments we have left.’

  ‘I cannot believe I fall for shit like this.’

  ‘Saints be praised. And show a bit of cleavage, would you, we’re approaching the door.’

  The place was packed as usual. Terry bought drinks and he and Eve stood near the bar, checking out the room. Terry was looking for the blonde Spandau had described. Eve was looking for a golden career opportunity. Eve was having better luck.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I think it’s Russell Crowe.’ She turned to Terry. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Like the golden apples of the sun,’ he said offhandedly, not taking his eyes off the crowd.

  ‘Fucking right,’ she said, and went forth to bag her prey.

  Terry had only been to the Voodoo Room once before. It was exactly the sort of place he hated: loud, impersonal and utterly pretentious. Full of showbiz types and wannabes, and underneath the music and the perfect pulsing bodies was a sense of desperation. Like the line outside, even here you were In or Out. It was so important to be In. Terry sipped his Jameson’s and wondered how long this would take. Maybe she wasn’t here. That would involve coming back again. Or again. Jesus, he thought. I should never have let that bastard Spandau talk me into this.

  He kept his eye on the office. Staff came and went all the time. He didn’t see anyone who fit Stella’s description, and he didn’t see the blonde. A small raven-haired beauty came up to the bar and ordered a drink. She gave Terry a smile. No ring, she was ordering a drink for herself. Unaccompanied or at least available. Terry smiled back. No you bastard, he thought, you’re working.

  ‘Wow,’ said the girl to him, ‘this place is crazy!’

  First time, he thought, out of town, she’s not holding out for Russell Crowe, she just wants to meet a nice guy. I could do the ‘I’m-a-stranger-here-myself’ approach and discover we are kindred spirits. She won’t feel threatened, she’d be scared shitless of a player. Romance in the City of the Angels. Take her to see the La Brea Tarpits tomorrow and by evening we’re conveniently at the marina restaurant near the boat. And then.

  He’d done this so many times that everything immediately fell into slots, like punchcards in an old computer. The girl waited for him to speak. Oh he wanted to speak. He thought about what they’d talk about, what she’d be like in bed. Thought about how her skin would feel and taste. And in the morning or earlier she’d bugger off back to the motel and catch the afternoon flight to Nebraska. Back to her high school sweetheart, her fiancée, her parents, her fat little sister with braces. Five years down the road she’d get drunk on wine and tell one of her girlfriends about Terry. They’d giggle.

  The girl’s drink came. Terry still hadn’t said anything. The girl looked hurt. If you only knew, thought Terry. Horrible it was, knowing everything about her at a glance. One day there would be the mystery again. Or so he prayed daily. The girl picked up her drink, smiled awkwardly again, and disappeared into the crowd.

  It was after midnight when he saw the blonde come out of the office. She stopped at the top of the steps, took a managerial glance around the room, then made her way to the bar. She spoke to the bartender, inquired about stock, about sales. She made a circle of the room and spoke to the waitresses, looking to stop or anticipate any problems. She was good at her job. Serious, never smiled. Tough. And smart. She wasn’t gorgeous but there was something under the skin that you wanted to get at. Spandau had mentioned Stella’s hand on her hip. Stella’s woman? Spandau didn’t think so. But Terry could imagine a man like Stella wanting something he couldn’t have, something he couldn’t understand. Class, thought Terry. That would be just what Stella wanted most.

  He watched her make her rounds then go back to the office. Okay then, she was here, when would she leave? The place closed at 2 a.m. She’d do some paperwork, maybe. Then drive home. Or maybe a boyfriend would pick her up? A husband? No, Terry hadn’t spotted a ring. Probably a boyfriend somewhere, but he wouldn’t pick her up. Stella wouldn’t like that. She’d drive home herself. She was that sort.

  Shortly after last call Eve returned. She was angry.

  ‘It wasn’t him, the son of a bitch,’ she said.

  Terry was half-listening. ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t Russell Crowe. It was some goddamn set carpenter. He lied to me, the bastard.’

  ‘He told you he was Russell Crowe?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But he never said he wasn’t.’

  Terry laughed. ‘It’s a vale of tears we live in, as me old mother used to say. It could be worse. You could’ve let him have his way standing up in the lavatory.’

  She gave him an angry look, since this was exactly what she’d done. Suddenly Terry said, ‘Let’s go.’ He took her elbow and moved her toward the door.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ said Eve. ‘I want a drink.’

  ‘You’ll be in mourning for your lost honor, and I wouldn’t presume to intrude upon it,’ Terry said to her.

  He took her outside and led her to a taxi stand down the street and folded her into the car.

  ‘You men are all shits, you know that? And the fucking Irish are the worst of the—’

  The cab pulled away. Terry waved to her as he watched her lips move.

  The blonde didn’t come out until nearly 3 a.m. He’d been sitting in his dark car, parked down the street in the shadows, for over an hour, watching patrons, drun
k and sober, paired-up and alone, stagger out of the club. He passed the time listening to his iPod and trying to think of the raven-haired girl instead of the blonde. It kept coming back to the blonde. He peed into a plastic jogger’s flask and, not for the first time, questioned the sanity of doing any of this.

  He brought his mind round to Ravenhair naked and lying in his bed, but his mind slipped gears and he found himself curled up with the blonde in post-coital tenderness. This was a bad sign. It was almost comforting that, in all likelihood, she probably had a boyfriend at home. An actor or musician. Hung like a Clydesdale and a degree in physics. And he’d be tall. She’d adore him and Terry wouldn’t stand a bloody chance in hell. Terry could just approach her and ask his bloody questions and she’d report back to Stella and Terry could collect his paycheck and go off and get shitfaced somewhere. Oh yes, thought Terry, I should have spoken to little Ravenhair.

  It wasn’t hard to follow the blonde. She drove an old bright-yellow VW Beetle and stopped at all the lights, stop signs, railroad crossings and was generous in granting the right of way. Terry could have followed her on a bicycle, and was able to keep a safer distance behind than usual. It wasn’t far. She pulled up in front of a bungalow in West Hollywood and left the motor running. She walked up to the porch and knocked instead of rang. In a moment a woman in her fifties answered the door. The blonde didn’t go in. They spoke. The woman seemed to be scolding her, but gently. The blonde kept shaking her head. Finally the blonde went inside. A few minutes later she came back out carrying a sleeping child, a boy it looked like, maybe three or four years old. She put the boy in the back seat and strapped him in, talking to him all the while. She got in her car and drove away. The woman in the house stood at the door the whole time and watched. When the VW disappeared the woman closed the door.

  Terry followed her down Sunset and north onto the 405. He kept at least a quarter mile behind her. She turned off at Ventura Boulevard and Terry slowed so he wouldn’t creep up on her at the light. He came down a good ways behind her when she’d just made the turn onto Ventura and he eased in again a safe distance behind. There was no hurry. It was like following a yeti but he had to be careful.