He tried for an upgrade at the gate, but his upper crust accent held no weight with the frau from Lufthansa.
The flight was awful, just poverty with wings. And he watched as they drew the curtain on Business Class as Jane and others freighted smoked salmon, champagne — on frigging ice too! And, oh Jesus, oysters. Economy class got plastic sandwiches and dire coffee, with a fee for headphones to watch Adam Sandler in some ghastly two-year-old flick.
Sebastian fumed.
Beside him was a fat guy from Ohio, who had been to the Frankfurt Book Fair. The guy babbled on about hot books and hotter chicks, and Sebastian suddenly perked when the guy mentioned book rights for an international bestselling novel named Bust.
It was a sign. An omen, a nudge from dark forces that he needed to get his shit together.
In L.A., Jane asked if he’d like to go for a drink before he headed off? Meaning, hit the road cowboy.
He kissed her hand, said gallantly, “It has been fun, madam, but I feel I should go meet someone who is not getting the old-age pension.”
Then he hired a cab to follow her Town Car home. Watched her have the driver carry suitcases into her pink chateau. He let her get settled, i.e., remove the layers of shite on her face, drop some of her anti-aging pills. He was seriously enraged, the cunt had used and abused him, and in an Irish accent, from his Angela days, he swore: “I will not be fooking cast off.”
His comprehensive education not a complete waste, he jimmied the back door, moved silently towards the lounge where she was predictably watching one of her old movies, circa 1968. He grabbed her from behind, muttered, “Your contract has expired, love.”
But who knew the old buzzard had so much spunk? Fought like a lunatic and they fell, struggled, smashed, nigh death-danced all over the lounge, with glass, ornaments, cushions flying. She nearly got the upper hand too, having kneed him in the balls. But instead of delivering the coup de grâce, she opted for a speech. Fucking actors, can never resist a scene. As she intoned, channeled a very bad Desdemona, he reached for a poker and smashed her face, over and over, until he sighed, “Who knew she had so much blood in her?”
He ransacked the place, got money, jewelry and even the keys to her sporty Monte Carlo. As he crunched out over the broken glass and debris, he looked back at the twisted body, said, “Been fun, doll,” and headed out to be a star.
Having read online that Bust was being produced by Darren Becker, Sebastian began stalking the chap. He followed him and his lover — yes, Becker was indeed a shirt lifter, but who wasn’t in this place? — to his office, to the studios, to tennis, to the gym, and to various high-end restaurants. Darren was living the life Sebastian was desperate to live, and would be living soon.
Sebastian had read that Bust was in need of a screenwriter.
Deciding that it would be best to meet Darren naturally, Sebastian used a stalker’s trick he’d read about once in some thriller he’d nicked from Waterstones, and got a job working at Darren’s gym.
One morning when Darren arrived, Sebastian was there, handing him a towel saying, “Darren Becker, is it?”
Darren squinted, said, “You are...”
“Sebastian. We met, oh I don’t know when was it, ten years ago?”
“We did?”
“You said you were a huge fan of my writing.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you called me the next Beckett, I believe it was. Not Samuel, Simon of course. Well, hardly matters now, does it? I happened to hear through the ol’ grapevine that you’re producing Bust, and I just want to throw my hat into the ring, so to speak.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“Pardon?”
“I have no idea who the fuck you are, some fucking towel boy at the gym.”
Americans and their horrid manners. Why Sebastian had always thought they should’ve banned John McEnroe from Wimbledon.
Properly, Sebastian said, “I told you, I’m Sebastian... Sebastian Child. Perhaps you know my brother, Lee? As in Jack Reacher?”
“I hated that fucking movie,” Darren said, trying to get by Sebastian.
Sebastian wouldn’t move, said, “I haven’t had my big break yet, but I assure you nothing will get in my way.”
“Maybe Lee’ll let you write the next Reacher,” Darren said, “but there’s no way in hell you’re writing Bust.” He pushed by Sebastian and headed to the steam room.
The next day, Sebastian was unceremoniously fired from the job at the gym and knew Becker was behind it. He resolved right then that he’d kill the bastard, preferably in some homoerotic way, the way Tom killed Dickie in the Ripley film. But how would he get Darren out to sea in a rowboat to crush open his skull with an oar? Well, he’d have to sort that part out, wouldn’t he?
A couple of days later, he was waiting outside Darren’s house in Beverly Hills, when he couldn’t believe his bloody eyes. It couldn’t possibly be her, after all these years, could it? After all he’d shot the mad Irish cow at point-blank range in the chest, left her for dead outside the gas station in Canada. But it was her — same blond hair, same luscious bosom. He should’ve expected she’d survived. The Irish, they’re so dreadfully hard to stomp out. The Brits had been trying to off the lot of them for years by secretly urinating in exported Guinness, warming it up properly, but the Irish suckers keep popping back up like roaches post-apocalypse.
When she entered the house, he rushed over to peer in through a window. Good Christ, she was servicing Becker, bringing flashbacks to Sebastian’s own time with her in Santorini. Ah, the memories of young love! It made sense that she was getting it from Becker as Sebastian well knew that if anyone could turn a gay man, it was her.
Sebastian did the only sensible thing under the circumstances — began to diddle himself. He was British, so he felt shame for the act, of course, and moaned “So sorry” as he came all over the bushes.
Later, ’round lunch time, Angela headed off and Sebastian pursued. He had so many questions and so few answers. What had Angela been doing all these years? How had she wound up in L.A. with Darren Becker? Did she have some involvement in the TV show?
He followed her up to the Chateau Marmont. Finally, a proper establishment, Sebastian was back in his element. He trailed, watching as Angela was seated at a table, and then as some horrendously dressed man arrived. Crikey, he was in trainers!
An hour later, Sebastian was in the lobby, momentarily distracted, when he was suddenly face to face with her. The rage in her eyes terrified him and instincts screamed, Run!, so he slipped away. Obviously she hadn’t forgiven him just yet for that shooting business in Canada. This complicated things, but he knew he could win her over; after all, the Sebastian psychopathic charm was impossible to resist.
As always, all he required was a plan.
Sixteen
The deal with noir is whoever you meet on page one is completely fucked and it’s only going to get worse.
Larry was sitting in the In-N-Out Burger on Sunset, nursing a cup of truly shit coffee, looked like the spillage from the Gulf of Mexico, when two cops entered, fucking CHPs.
One was younger, crewcut, Larry could cast Newman in The Hustler. The other was mainly bald but blond, maybe a Redford type, so it would have to be present-day Redford, i.e., Redford with the fucked-up looking face.