A Good-Looking Corpse Page 6

  The thick smoke is moved about the room by unseen currents that also serve to keep the temperature a pleasant but slightly humid 72 degrees. Thin air vents in the ceiling collect the smoke and regurgitate fresh air, somehow calibrated to leave enough smoke for an ambiance without overkill.

  “Smart house,” Ramen comments when he sees me looking. “It monitors smoke, air temperature, carbon monoxide, radiation, even farts.” Ramen’s attention goes back to what is happening in the pit. He’s excited about the rather one-sided bloodbath taking place below.

  On the far side of the room, another steel door is cut into the concrete, but is mostly obscured by the three beautiful women leaning up against it. I try and picture where we are in relation to the property above and decide it must be a shallow closet.

  Next, I study the faces of the people in the room, searching. Some I recognize—the faces of the people in the movies and TV shows Ivy watches. Handsome, refined, coolly confident, they’re all focused on the fight itself, oblivious to anything but the brawl.

  Mikey Echo himself is the exception. Dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and with his hair finely coifed, he seems to be looking anywhere but at the action below him. The handsome producer almost seems upset by the violence. If he knows Ramen and I are in the room, he doesn’t show it, so focused is he on not seeing the carnage playing out before him.

  “I thought you said it was dogs,” I say to Ramen, trying to make my voice heard over the shouting and music paired with the heavy slap of bone thinly shrouded in flesh connecting with more flesh.

  “Dogs are the undercard, this is the main event.”

  The two men fighting in the center of the recessed space below us are bloodied, but most of the fluid seems to be spilling from the white man—a gaunt son of a bitch whose body is a mess of tattoos, many of them racially motivated. The blood is from the front of his face, which has been rendered a puffy, busted mess by the thick fists of his dark black opponent. Something about the black fighter strikes me as familiar—his immense build, his hard-set face. I can’t make out the words tattooed across his bare knuckles, but I suddenly know exactly what they say: HATE and HATE. Etched into his right hand is a sideways Christian cross.

  “Fuck,” I murmur, my scar burning from those years ago when this big man nearly ended my life with his shit-coated prison blade. “It’s him. It’s Crozier.”

  Chapter 6

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot you know Crozier,” Ramen says from my side, his face still turned toward the fight. I’m not in the frame of mind to consider why he would know that.

  “He knows me,” I say, rage building within—from beneath my scar. My heart is pumping raw red heat out through my veins and I find myself scanning the room for something I can use to attack the hulking man. I can’t beat Crozier in a frontal assault, but if I can brain him with something from behind and above . . . a blunt-force trauma; fracture the skull at the temporal fossa—its weakest point—instantaneous hemorrhaging results. He’ll be dead before the first asshole can leap out of his chair to stop me. Then it’s just about making sure I keep swinging and moving so the crowd can’t pin me down. Adrenaline is pounding through me, keeping the rational thoughts at bay. I’m not going back to prison. If anyone gets in my way, I start going for throats . . . try to take a hostage in the scrum and force the cops to shoot me dead. None of it seems excessive in the moment—just murderous logic fueled by fresh anger.

  But perhaps Mikey had taken “rage factor” in mind when he designed the room—there is nothing I can use as a weapon. The tables with their inlaid ashtrays look expensive but not particularly sturdy; they’d crumble before Crozier’s thick skull does. I can try to shatter a beer bottle and go for his pterion, but the one-two move leaves me vulnerable. I would have to jump into the pit to do it, and if he figures out what I am up to, he will be on me while I am recovering from the leap. I would be a sitting duck.

  Finally, the stark reality of my situation allows me to cool down. It is foolish to sit there fuming if I can’t act. I calm myself and turn to Ramen. “I’m leaving.”

  Stepping past him, I go for the door before he can protest. I am halfway up the stairwell when a voice calls from behind me that isn’t Ramen’s: “Tom Tanner.”

  I turn to face Mikey Echo, his body framed and lit theatrically by the open doorway. He grins upward at me, now cooler than any cucumber. “Not a fan of the ultraviolence?” he asks. “Me neither. But the people need to be entertained.”

  One last meaty splat from behind the young producer—meat against concrete, and the crowd cheers, resolute. The fight is over and I’m willing to bet Crozier is the last man standing. Mikey shuts the door to mute the cheering and it’s just he and I enclosed in his staircase. A series of wall lamps illuminate the space between us. “Let’s talk upstairs,” he says, good-naturedly and casual.

  Moved forward by the strength of his charisma alone, I find myself leading the way into his long kitchen, made narrower by an immense island, at the center of which is a shiny steel Teppanyaki grill. The room looks presentation-ready for a magazine shoot and everything seems placed, but untouched. I bet there’s never been a meal cooked in this room. Mikey overtakes me in the kitchen and leads me back out toward the front entrance and up one of two symmetrical staircases toward the second floor. His body language is loose—fluid, without any suggestion of danger in the movements. If I’m about to be ambushed, it won’t be by him. We continue down the hallway where more of his scary mixed-medium artworks hang or stand on pedestals, projecting an ambiance of gore. We move around a series of porcelain-chiseled humans with anguished faces, some buried up to mid-torso, attempting in vain to free themselves from the wall and floor space in which they’ve been trapped.

  “Dante’s Inferno is the theme up here. Pretty freaky, right?”

  “So this isn’t all just for the party?” I ask, believing Ramen’s words about Mikey’s dark personality more and more.

  “Imagine how much I scare myself when I get up to get a drink of water at night,” Mikey quips, never stopping his stride.

  He continues on, pushing through a double doorway at the end of the hall—the master bedroom. The enormous room is as tidy as the rest of the house and has the same pleasant scent piped in, but the bedroom holds the darkest scenery. Here, the entire wall surrounding the fireplace has a gothic horror show built into it: an enormous marble-carved Hellscape is chiseled gorgeously into the white expanse, like something straight out of Hieronymus Bosch’s nightmares. More torsos and body parts are on display here, faces wide-eyed and screaming in terror as they seem to be set upon by snakes and demons, entwined in a mire of wicked flames. “Tell me you love this?” Mikey asks, pausing briefly to admire it himself. “I can’t find a Mexican housecleaner willing to dust it. The same guy who did the hallway art did this piece. I had it specially commissioned. It cost a fucking fortune, and he had to sculpt it in the room, but it’s truly a masterwork. My starting influence was Rodin’s The Gates of Hell, but I wanted something singular and unique that really expressed the core of me.”

  “You just confirmed all my darkest opinions of you.”

  “I hope so.” He smiles, unfazed. “But it would be unfair of you to think that is all I am.”

  “I also read up on all your philanthropic activity.”

  “See there,” he said, delighted that I’d checked up on him. “For someone to be as grim as I appear and yet still aiming to make the world a better place, I can’t be all bad, right?”

  “With the money you clearly have, you can be anything you want. Or at least appear that way.” I want to show him I won’t be swept up or manipulated by charm.

  “Ramen told me you were a hard-ass.” He chuckles and leads me through yet another set of French doors and out to a massive stone veranda. The night air is warmer than inside the house and Mikey basks in it, loving its effect on his skin. “Ah, Los Angeles, am I right? It just feels different than the rest of the world.”

&nbs
p; “You sound like Ramen.” I move to join him at the edge of the terrace, looking out onto the rear spread of his property with its long stretch of blue pool and a massive guesthouse at the rear of the property. The grounds below are set up for a funeral party with black chairs set at tables covered with ink-colored tablecloths. Another photo of Alan stands on an easel beneath an outdoor light on a pole, giving the deceased actor’s image a sort of heavenly glow.

  “It’s a tragedy, huh? Here we are mourning the loss of a truly magnificent actor like Alan Van. So young, so . . . enamored with being tragic.”

  “The way I hear it, he didn’t jump,” I state bluntly, a second warning to Mikey to avoid the bullshit.

  “Ramen tell you that?” Mikey asks, the charm fading for just a moment.

  “It doesn’t matter where I heard it,” I say, suddenly feeling like I’ve just thrown the Indian man to the lions. “Is it true?”

  “What if I told you that Ramen pushed him?” Mikey probes, patronizing.

  “I wouldn’t believe you. How do you know about me?”

  “Isn’t all this mind-blowing? That people can live like this?” Mikey says, changing the subject to exalt in his apparent glory. He smacks his hand down on the thick patio railing just to feel its decadence. “Fame is the best feeling in the world. It’s like being everyone’s favorite teddy bear. You just experience so much attention from everyone who matters.”

  “Yeah, great stuff. Why’d you bring me here?” I shift the conversation back on course.

  “I want to buy your life,” Mikey says offhandedly, staring directly at me. “Your story. The rights to tell it to the world. In pictures. I want to make you famous too.”

  This is not what I was expecting. “What?”

  At this moment, the rabble streams out of the house onto the patio below. An unseen band launches into song and from nothing, a party emerges.

  Mikey grins large again. “I know all about you, Tom. Don’t shoot me down just yet—I know you want to, but don’t. At least hear me out.”

  I look down upon the revelers dancing and carousing below. From the middle of the pack, Ramen looks up at me, watching intently. He nods when he sees me looking and then breaks contact to reach into his pocket and hand a blonde girl attached to his side one of his baggies of coke.

  “What’s your pitch?” I ask, exhausted. His sales schtick reminds me of Andy Sample’s, only more rehearsed.

  “First, I heard of you from this annoying neighbor of mine. An old associate of my dad’s, he cornered me in the men’s room at the PGA, talking incessantly about you and how you’d overcome this serial killer, but that you didn’t want to be famous because you’d killed some little girl. He was practically apoplectic that you didn’t want to sign the contract he’d sent your way. He’d even sent over a call girl dressed in Chanel to get your signature on the dotted line.”

  “If you heard his story, you already know my answer, then,” I try, but Mikey shushes me.

  “That reluctance right there—that drive to not be a somebody in the very Land of Somebodies—that’s what interests me. I decided that I needed to get to know more about you. And the more I read, the more I knew I wanted to tell the story of your past, your present, and your future.”

  “Look, I get it. You’re used to getting what you want. But I’m not interested. And I won’t be.”

  You wouldn’t be the person I wanted to make a movie about if you said ‘yes’ right away. Besides, that wouldn’t be any fun for me. So stick around, enjoy the party as much as you want—you can go crazy, there are no rules here at all. You’re my special guest and that makes you untouchable.”

  “No thanks.” I turn to leave.

  “I saw your face when you recognized Crozier,” Mikey says plainly. I stop and turn back around. “You wanted him dead.”

  “Did you bring him here for me? Is that a part of this world?”

  “Hah, no. Crozier’s been with me a few years now. He’s my most trusted . . . servant. You see, part of my philanthropy is extending opportunities to former inmates. Violent offenders, people who can’t get a job elsewhere. They all work for me in various positions. Crozier's demonstrated his enormous value to me so I keep him close. He just happened to be around when your name got mentioned in the office one day and he filled me in on the details of your acquaintance.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous, keeping all these felonious men around?”

  “And women,” Mikey says soberly. “Don’t be exclusive—women kill just as easily. I think I’d be crazy to have an army of killers surrounding me if I wasn’t certain that they know I am the most dangerous asshole in the bunch.”

  “Did you kill Alan Van?” I ask again.

  “Sure,” Mikey answers with indifference. “I mean Crozier dangled him out the window by his ankles, made him beg for his life, but I ordered the drop.”

  “Why?”

  “Behold the glory of modern Rome, Tom. We are known worldwide. Our spectacle and grandeur are the envy of the civilized world. But our gods too demand sacrifice. So maybe the question isn’t why would we drop Alan, but why wouldn’t we? Hollywood has been too quiet lately. She needs to be kept on her toes—it breeds creativity.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I tell the producer. “That’s not why you did it.”

  “Why do you think, then?” he asks, smirking.

  “To meet me.”

  “You’re so arrogant, Tom. I’ll have to tell the screenwriter to color that into the background of your movie. It will explain so much. If you must strip all the theatrics from it, frankly, I was sick of his shit. And a good death will add a few million in box office receipts. Look at Heath Ledger with The Dark Knight, Brandon Lee with The Crow, Paul Walker with Furious 7. Alan’s sacrifice will ensure healthier returns for his last picture, which I just so happen to have produced. But, if it will ease your distended ego, I did instruct that you be called specifically for the cleanup.”

  “Why would you tell me this? You realize I’m going to go right to the police from here.”

  I watch his body to see if it tenses up—if any, this is the moment for him to pull a gun or a blade, but he stays nonchalant and just as calm as ever.

  “Good,” he says, mysteriously jocular. “Actually, I want you to. You’d be a monster if you didn’t, right? You see, I think of it as all part of my seduction. I want the rights to your story. And I want you to agree that I am the person who deserves them.” His expression and body language abruptly shift once more and he becomes almost giddy. “I think eventually you will see it my way.” He smiles that reptilian smile of his. “Now, no more business. Now we play. When you’re here, Tom, whatever you want is yours. Crozier is probably showering up as we speak. Say the word and I’ll have him killed for your amusement. Or you can do it yourself. Nothing bad will happen to you whatsoever, I promise. I will make it all go away. Welcome to my kingdom. Welcome to my Rome.”

  I no longer feel safe standing there on the balcony with this strange man . . . this predator in human form, but I don’t leave either. I want to, but it is the thought of Ivy that compels me to stay in Mikey’s presence a bit longer. Because I would not let Ivy go to the party, she will not forgive me if I don’t stay long enough to soak up the scenery so I can report every glittering detail back to her. Staying in the presence of an admitted killer seems more tolerable somehow than her whining.

  “Show me your world, then,” I find myself saying and gesture for him to lead the way. I’ve got to believe there is a crack in his veneer, some weak spot to exploit in this alpha among alphas.

  Mikey leads me downstairs into the thick of the scene—more beautiful, chic strangers everywhere, swarming, mingling, indulging. Everyone is dressed in black, mourning. The girls wear veils, slipping their fingers with black nail polish behind the sheer material to snort blow. Men, some in top hats and tails look dapper, and the previously unseen band, dressed like nineteenth-century morticians perform faux dirges. Black lampposts have been t
rucked in to light the expanse of backyard, but still maintain artful shadows. The lights in the pool all gleam red, giving it the look of blood.

  Ramen is stoned out of his mind. Ballistically intoxicated, he is draped all over several women. I smile thinly, envious of the high. It really is almost Roman, this debauched cocaine party in the form of a memorial. Obviously Mikey is being ironic, but is the crowd? No one is crying or grieving here and the photo of Alan, the big one from the outdoor easel, is now being crowd surfed about, with anybody in the reach of it lifting a finger or two to continue its circuit. Eventually it runs out of real estate and falls in the pool, facedown, where it floats atop the water. No one fishes it out.

  I keep waiting for Mikey to take a bump of coke or accept one of the cocktails that are being circulated by waitresses in micro dresses. Are they ex-convicts as well? But Mikey never touches the stuff. Most people here seem to know the name Mikey Echo, but they don’t know him personally—he has a sort of Gatsby presence that way. He slides around, working the room with me in tow. I am his prize to be shown off and fawned over—the man who cleans up death.

  It’s a game to him—Mikey, I realize. He introduces me at first, polite but undefined. “This is Tom,” he says, also never introducing himself, expecting them to know. And they should know, I suppose, if they’re at his party. I get a look or, at best, a nod from the fabulous stranger before they pull focus and re-zoom in on him, his chiseled chin and excellent bone structure. They don’t care about me. Then he says: “Tom’s the crime scene guy who survived a serial killer. He’s going to be the focus of my next movie.” And that’s all it takes for me to become fabulous in this world—the absolute buzz.