Rough Cut Page 18

  33

  Chuck Lear arrived early at Santa Monica Bay, scanned the horizon for swell and wind conditions, and grinned at the tasty wave formations. Yesterday, the waves broke too early, making them difficult to catch; but today the dawn brought some good sets. He had arrived before the crowds. He was stoked.

  Suited up in his blue-and-black, three-quarters length wet-suit, Chuck sat on the white sand and began applying circles of wax to “Voyager,” his trusty, nine-foot board with the rounded nose. He didn’t have to report to his engineering job at Coastal Tek for another two hours. He couldn’t wait to paddle out into his first wave of the day.

  Chuck was a hell-bent surfing enthusiast who subscribed to the magazines, absorbed the videos, followed the daily conditions, and studied the sport’s past, reading up on legends from the early 1900s like Alexander Hume Ford, Duke Kahanamoku and George Freeth. He looked forward to every new sunrise and each new swell.

  As he waxed his board and took in the morning, Chuck noticed something strange and brown, not too far from where he was sitting. A big dark lump rested just off the bike path.

  Chuck had seen it earlier and dismissed it as a brown trash bag, but the growing light revealed it to be something larger and stranger.

  Just the sight of a discarded soda can spoiling the beach was enough to make him irate. This brown lump was really gnawing at him. What the heck was it?

  Curiosity finally got the best of him. Chuck put down his board and wandered over to check it out.

  The brown lump was a ratty old blanket wrapped around something with duct tape. Much of the duct tape had already torn loose. Chuck could see part of a colorful shirt inside. A big, sandy pile of laundry?

  Chuck reached down and peeled back a section of the blanket.

  He uncovered a portion of a man’s face and a hairy, bloody scalp.

  Chuck Lear screamed, sending nearby gulls scattering.

  34

  George Grubbis lay flat on his back on the hardwood floor of his bedroom. Sometimes it was the only way to relieve the pain from his bulging, herniated disc. His lumpy mattress fed the inflammation like a flamethrower. He needed a firmer bed.

  Then again, he needed a lot of things.

  What he did not need was the phone ringing at 7 a.m., especially given his troubled night of sleep. Every time he dozed off, Casper, his cat and sole companion, decided to walk across his chest.

  He wished Casper could answer the phone and take a message.

  The phone rang and rang and rang. George surrendered, accepted the pain, and sat up in slow increments. He cursed at the stings and moved across the bedroom on his hands and knees. He reached up and snatched the phone receiver.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Mr. Grubbis, this is Rebecca Hirsch, at the 1100 block of Del Marino.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Your tenant is causing problems again, and I am on the verge of calling the police — again.”

  “Yeah,” he said. Last week, she had called the police to report horrific screams coming out of Marcus Stegman’s house.

  As it turned out, Marcus was blasting a horror movie on his super deluxe home theater, cranking his mammoth surround sound speakers like some kind of rock concert.

  The cops found it funny. Rebecca Hirsch did not.

  Her complaint this morning was not noise; it was the sight of Stegman’s front lawn.

  “Garbage,” she said. “All sorts of garbage, and it blows into my yard. It’s an embarrassment to the neighborhood. And now he’s got this giant ant...”

  “Yeah,” said Grubbis. Then he realized he hadn’t heard right. “Wait —what?”

  “A giant ant.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You better get him to clean up around his house, or I’m going to report this to the village. You’re the landlord. You own the property. Go control the situation please. Thank you.” Her politeness was strained to the breaking point.

  Grubbis hung up and Casper wandered over, white tail waving in a languid rhythm.

  “Well, Casper,” said Grubbis, “Looks like we’re up.”

  Grubbis gobbled three ibuprofen tablets, got dressed, and filled Casper’s bowl. He left to go see Stegman.

  During the drive, he thought about Audrey Stegman looking down at him from the heavens with pleading eyes. Please have pity on my boy. He’s not right in the head. He’s not a bad kid.

  It filled him with melancholy.

  Grubbis arrived at the house, and indeed, there was a giant ant on the front lawn. It looked like a prop from some old monster movie. And that’s probably what it was.

  Stegman had spent huge sums of money on movie memorabilia. Grubbis did not ask where the money came from and did not care, as long as the rent was being paid. During Grubbis’s last visit to collect the rent, Stegman had bragged about his growing collection and offered to show him artifacts from various horror films. “Do you want to see the tombstone from Curse of the Mummy?” Stegman offered.

  “No,” said Grubbis, collecting his rent money —in cash.

  “One day I’m going to open a museum.”

  “Not on my property.”

  Stegman had just laughed. It was a weird, almost sinister laugh. Stegman kept getting stranger. His mind was frying in a saucepan soaked with drugs and alcohol. He was sinking ever deeper into brain damage.

  It was depressing.

  Even more depressing was the state of the ranch home on Del Marino.

  In addition to the giant ant, random garbage filled the yard: a broken casket that looked fake, a shopping cart from a nearby grocer, fluttering newspaper pages, trampled fast food bags, and soda and liquor bottles. All buried in overgrown grass and weeds.

  This was not acceptable.

  Grubbis rang the front doorbell, then pounded on the door. No response. He was used to it. It didn’t mean nobody was home.

  Grubbis circled to the side of the house, kicking past more trash. He approached a small window. It was opened a crack, covered on the inside by a bed sheet, a pitiful makeshift curtain. Grubbis slid the window up. The effort produced pain in his back. He reached in, took hold of the bed sheet and pulled it down.

  The inside of the house was a disaster, worse than ever before.

  Movie equipment, monster memorabilia, food, dirty plates, magazines, books, spilled bags of trash, buried furniture, all mixed into a big, heaping stew. How could anyone even walk through this mess?

  The sight repulsed him. Then a whiff of stench made him gag.

  He stumbled away, gasping for air. He pulled up his shirt collar to cover his nose and mouth. He braced himself. He returned to the window.

  He could see tiny spots of movement —flies —dancing circles around the room. On the wall closest to him he saw large, careless gouges, like scars. Above the gouges, where the wall met the ceiling, he recognized long brown stains that looked like water damage from a broken pipe or seeping rain.

  This is my house, God dammit!

  Grubbis felt enraged. The house probably had rats, too. Before long, the property would be worthless.

  Then Grubbis noticed the most shocking sight of all —there was a naked, pink man, peacefully sleeping in the midst of all this squalor. He was sprawled on sofa cushions on the floor, scratching his hairy chest, long hair askew, probably wasted. It wasn’t Marcus — it was the tall roommate with the red beard. A cockroach moved across his legs to his pubic hair. He slapped at it limply without opening his eyes.

  It’s a freaking mental institution!

  Grubbis left the window. He left the house, the giant ant, the shopping cart, the trash, and climbed into his Toyota Camry. He itched all over. It felt like bugs were crawling under his skin. The stench still lingered in his nostrils.

  Returning home, Grubbis picked up the phone and called Marcus.

  An answering machine kicked in after five rings. Eerie organ music played in the background, a wolf howled, and Marcus Stegman welcomed the caller
to the castle of Dr. Frankenstein, or some such nonsense, in a cartoony voice. Perhaps it would be cute coming from a 10-year-old on Halloween, but it was pathetic and stupid coming from a reputed adult. “Please leave your screams after the bell tolls. The grim reaper shall be with you shortly.”

  Sure enough, there were bells preceding the beep.

  “Marcus Stegman,” said Grubbis, “the game is over. I will be terminating the lease. You will have 30 days to vacate the premises. Anything you leave behind will be thrown away. I will be delivering the written notice shortly. If you do not leave voluntarily, you will be served with an unlawful detainer complaint; and the court will have you physically evicted. I’m done playing around. I’m through negotiating. What you have done to the house is a disgrace. Consider yourself thrown out on the street.”

  Grubbis hung up. Casper wandered over and rubbed against his legs.

  Grubbis looked heavenward. “I’m sorry, Audrey,” he said.

  35

  Brett Ludwig placed the Beretta 9000S pistol into Harry’s hand. “Lightweight, compact, easy to carry, ideal for personal defense,” he said.

  Harry nodded, staring at the weapon, afraid to grasp it too hard.

  “It’s OK. It’s not loaded. For God’s sake, hold it like a gun, Harry,” said Ludwig.

  For many years, Ludwig had been Harry’s primary source for replica, blank-firing guns —props for his various movies. These replicas faithfully matched the appearance of their counterparts, with important safety distinctions: the barrels were plugged and they could not be converted to fire live ammo.

  However, being a hardcore gun nut, Ludwig also had access to the real thing. Aware of this, Harry had called him earlier this morning with an urgent request. Ludwig was happy to oblige. Harry had given him a lot of business in the past, and Ludwig was not about to disappoint a client.

  Harry said he needed a firearm to protect himself against a crazed fan who was harassing him. That was all Ludwig needed to hear. He invited Harry to his Inglewood house and brought him into the “gun room,” which was double-locked behind a sturdy door. The room offered a lineup of tables and racks filled with replica guns: pistols, revolvers, shotguns, rifles, machine guns. Ludwig led him past the phonies to a closet, also requiring a key, which stored the real thing.

  After reviewing a few options, including a derringer, they landed on the double-action, 9mm “Baby” Beretta semi-automatic pistol.

  “Brand new, from the manufacturer. Never been fired,” said Ludwig. “Comes with two 10-round magazines.”

  Harry sighed. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Do you take credit cards?”

  Ludwig gave him a long look. “Here’s what we’ll do. In the paperwork, the receipt, it’s for one of the prop guns. You understand?”

  “Understood.”

  Harry bought the gun. He felt better, as if he had regained some control. He was up against a maniac who had killed —twice —and brought the most recent victim into Harry’s den. If Stegman broke into his house again, threatened him in any way, Harry would shoot him. It was as simple as that.

  Ludwig packaged the gun and Harry paid the bill.

  As Ludwig led Harry to the front door, they passed Ludwig’s wife in the living room. She sat on the couch in her pink robe and pink slippers, drinking a glass of orange juice, watching the morning news.

  Harry gave her a nod and smile. She stopped him with a frantic wave.

  “Did you hear about this?” she said, pointing to the television.

  On the screen, a sober-faced reporter was broadcasting live from a beach site surrounded by yellow tape, police, and curious onlookers.

  “—where police have identified the body of film critic Walter Wiggins. Wiggins apparently suffered massive head trauma, but the exact cause of the injury remains unclear. Police continue to search for clues at the scene. The body was found wrapped in blankets earlier this morning by —”

  Ludwig erupted with shocked laughter, causing Harry to jump. “Hah! Maybe somebody didn’t take too kindly to one of his bad reviews.”

  Harry forced out a chuckle even as his entire body broke out in a sheet of cold sweat. “What a crazy world,” he said, dazed. His words sounded like someone else talking to him.

  “You know, I never liked that guy,” said Ludwig. “He only liked artsy, foreign shit. Hey, didn’t you just do an interview with him?”

  “You did?” said Ludwig’s wife from the couch, interested. “You knew Wiggins?”

  Harry responded, “Oh boy, look at the time. I’ve really got to run.” He brought up his wrist to glance at his watch —

  —only there was no watch.

  Harry froze.

  He didn’t remember taking off his watch.

  Then, images replayed in his mind from the prior night — sluggish, dark, dreamlike — dumping Wiggins’ body at the beach —the bicycle headlamp approaching —getting his watchband caught on Wiggins’ belt buckle — frantically tearing his arm free and jumping back into his car to drive away.

  I left my watch with the body.

  The watch Paul had given him. The watch inscribed with Harry’s nickname.

  Harry felt absolutely paralyzed. He couldn’t take his eyes off his bare wrist.

  “You OK?” said Ludwig.

  “Yes,” said Harry. “Yes. Yes.” The cell phone in his pocket rang out then, the spaceship tones from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  Harry fumbled until he had the phone flipped open in his hands and could read the caller ID.

  It was Rachel.

  Shit. There was no way he could talk to her now.

  “Nobody,” he said, snapping the phone shut and returning it to his pocket.

  “They’re interviewing the surfer who found the body,” said Ludwig’s wife, pointing to the TV screen.

  Harry left the house.

  As he climbed behind the wheel of his car, the cell phone starting ringing again.

  “Damn it!” said Harry. He flipped it open to see who it was now. It was Paul.

  Harry answered the phone, nearly shouting, “What?”

  “Hey, buddy,” greeted Paul. “Listen, we’ve got a bit of a situation here at the office.”

  Harry shut his eyes. “What is it?”

  “There’s somebody here to see you, and I don’t think he’s going to leave until you talk with him.”

  “Who the hell is it?”

  “Leonard Hurley.”

  Harry snapped, “I don’t know who that is, Paul.”

  “You should. He says you stole his wife. He’s got this great big RV filling half the parking lot. He says he came all the way from Pennsylvania to personally kick your ass.”

  “He what?”

  “What the hell is going on, Harry? What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don’t know. It’s just some lunatic.”

  “Yeah, well, he says he’s not budging until you show your face. And I tend to believe him. He’s as big as a freaking house. Harry, you better get over here.”

  Harry said nothing. He slumped in his car seat. He prayed very hard for a meteor to strike the earth.

  Paul’s voice buzzed in his ear like a persistent gnat. “Harry? Harry, are you still there? Harry? Harry!”

  36

  Harry pulled into the parking lot outside the offices of PJ Productions. A sprawling, tan and white RV sat on a diagonal across several parking spaces. An enormous man filled an orange lawn chair alongside the vehicle, looking at the Sports section of USA Today.

  Harry parked nearby, keeping his eyes on the man, who did not remove his attention from the paper.

  Well, thought Harry to himself, let’s see what the hell he wants.

  Harry stepped out of his car, shut the door, and walked over. He let his shoes scrape the cement as he neared, hoping the sound would at least cause the man to look at him. The man’s face stayed behind the paper.

  Harry cleared his throat as he approached. “Hello?�
�

  The big man lowered the newspaper. His eyes fixed on Harry. His expression did not offer a greeting — just a cold and hardened stare. He had short, messy hair, a natural frown, and tattoos of snakes crawling up his thick neck. Muscles bulged beneath his white T-shirt.

  The stranger did not speak, so Harry struggled for words, badly under rehearsed.

  “Hello...I’m wondering...I received this phone call...I don’t know what...OK, let’s start at the beginning. My name is Harry Tuttle.”

  The words Harry and Tuttle ignited an explosion.

  The man shot out of his chair, dashing aside the newspaper and grabbing Harry by the shirt collar. He shoved Harry backwards about five feet, then smashed a fist into his cheek.

  Harry saw stars. Gasping, he struggled to escape, but the next blow came fast. The man struck Harry under his eye, a blinding jolt that rattled everything in his skull. Harry cried out, and the next blow sent him down hard to the concrete.

  As Harry reached the ground, a large black boot greeted him, kicking him in the chest, propelling him backwards, tumbling, blue sky spinning.

  Harry tasted blood in his mouth. The boot returned —in the ribs this time —and the sky twirled again, then became gray cement. Harry lay crumpled face down on the pavement, throbbing from a multitude of shocks.

  Harry fought back the pain. With effort, he turned around, facing his attacker.

  The large man stood over Harry, blocking out the sun.

  Harry braced for the next blow.

  The man simply said, “Where is she?”

  “What?”

  “Wrong answer.”

  The boot returned to Harry’s side, crushing the wind out of him, leaving him gasping and scraped across several more feet of cement.

  “Let’s start over,” said the man. “Where is she?”

  “Y-your wife?” said Harry, trying to recollect what Paul had told him on the phone.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me...think...” said Harry, trying to find words that wouldn’t trigger more strikes. “I’d like to help...Can you...give me just a little bit more information?”