Infamous (7 page)

It never quite did—it was too far off the beaten track.

But the latest Sylvester—Neil was this one’s name—was still trying to hit the mother lode. There was a sign on the outskirts of town that announced the arrival of a whole parcel of modern hotels, plus a Food Lion and a Target. Building would commence as soon as the movie had wrapped, and the hotels and stores would soon stand ready for the hordes of tourists, inspired to make a pilgrimage to Jubilation by Trace Marcus’s nuanced performance as that greatest of American heroes, Silas Quinn.

I spat on the dusty ground—or I would have if I could have. But not being able to spit was okay with me, because just as I didn’t have spit to spray around, I also didn’t have thirst.

Which, along with being able to sneak into museums without paying, was one of the relatively good things about being a ghost, and actually, if you want to know the truth, I’m partial to the word
spirit. Ghost
makes me think of chains and moaning and Christmas Past and haunted houses.

And although the kid swears up and down that I’m haunting him, it’s not like that at all.

But wait. I’m getting in front of myself again.

Point one: Another of the good things about being a
spirit
is that you can walk around in the blazing Arizona sunshine without a hat and never break a sweat or need refreshment of any kind.

Point two: If I
were
haunting A.J., he’d damn well know it. I think of my time here with him as a friendly visit, a trip down memory lane. A.J.’s helping me, and I’m helping him, even though he doesn’t know it yet, and even though I’m not sure exactly
how
I’m helping him, aside from the obvious—that I’ve finally gotten him to emerge from that isolated and lonely workshop where he builds furniture, day in and day out.

The furniture’s beautiful, true, but his life is slowly slipping away from him. It’s time for him to live it.

I don’t possess a real clear master plan as to how I’m going to make that happen, but I’ll figure something out.

See, I’ve gone nimbly through 101 years of life, plus all of those additional years of afterlife, by the seat of my pants.

Why stop now?

Inspiration will strike when it’s good and ready. There’s no need to try and force it. Besides, the kid’s a think-things-through-er. He’s not big on impetuous spur-of-the-moment decisions. I figure at the rate he’s moving—and I do believe that crunching between my teeth comes from eating the dust of both a tortoise
and
a snail—I’ve got another four months, which is the entire remaining length of this movie shoot, to figure out what to do next.

Maybe I’ll talk him into taking a trip to London. Or a cruise up the Nile.

Anything to keep him from locking himself back into his workshop in Alaska. For years now, he’s been living in some kind of self-imposed purgatory. It’s not hell, but it sure isn’t heaven.

The boy deserves better than that.

Although he’s not a boy anymore. Hasn’t been in a long time.

I found him sitting in his truck with his AC running, checking the messages on his cell phone, looking none too pleased at the fact that his mother, Dr. Rose, had called him five different times since they’d spoken last, which was just yesterday evening.

As I slid into the seat next to him, he didn’t look too happy to see me, either. He never does these days.

“When you were ten years old, you thought I was the King of Alaska,” I reminded him.

He was grumpy. “I’m not ten anymore.”

“And yet,” I said, “I remain the King of Alaska.”

That made him laugh, although to be honest, it was more of an exasperated exhale.

“So,” I said, slapping my hands together with a crack that made the kid drop his cellular phone, “you figure out what you’re going to do about Alison Carter?”

“I’m going to figure out a way to tell her your story,” A.J. told me grimly, as he awkwardly retrieved the phone from the floor mat beneath his feet, “and then I’m going to figure out a way to prove it.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant, kid, and you
know it. You’ve been living like a monk for way too long. And I saw the way this girl was looking at you.”

“First of all,” he said, “she’s a woman, not a girl, thank you very much.”

“You’re very welcome,” I told him. “But to me, anyone under seventy-five is a girl.”

“It’s disrespectful,” he informed me. “Times have changed.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But times haven’t changed so much that I don’t recognize when a girl—excuse me—when a
woman
sizes up a man, and not just in terms of whether he’d be a charming and intelligent dinner date, but also whether or not he’d be a good partner in the non-slumber activities that go on in healthy and happy folks’ beds.”

“We are, not now, not ever, talking about sex,” A.J. said flatly.

I had to laugh. “We’re both grown men,” I pointed out. “I don’t see what the big deal—”

“Do it,” he said, “and I will walk over to the church, wake up the priest, and demand that he perform an exorcism. On the spot.”

“Well, now,
that
won’t work,” I scoffed. “I’m not a demon. Not even close.”

“Yeah, well, I’m willing to try it,” he said. “So go on. Make my day.”

A.J. didn’t look much like Dirty Harry. In fact, he was pretty much the opposite of Clint. He was the kind of man who couldn’t look threatening or dangerous without a huge amount of effort. I’d always had that problem, too. Particularly when I was younger. But he
did
look determined, and I knew that he wasn’t kidding.

I also have to confess that my feelings were a little hurt. “Gee,” I said. “And here I’d thought you’d enjoy having me around again.”

“There were times when I truly needed you, Gramps,” the kid said quietly. “Why didn’t you show up then?”

Because there were things that you needed to learn on your own
, I started to say, but only got as far as “Because—”

“Because you’re not really here,” he said. “It’s really just me, sitting in my truck, talking to myself—Jesus!”

He jumped and I jumped, too—because Alison Carter was knocking on his window.

“Sorry,” she said, as he powered it down. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you or …”

She was looking in the cab, looking right through me, and I knew that she was curious because she’d seen A.J. talking to me. Which, to her, looked an awful lot like A.J. was talking to himself.

“Say,
I gotta run, Mom, I’ll call you later,”
I instructed the kid, “and then pretend to hang up your phone.”

Instead he ignored me. “I was just, um, thinking aloud,” he told Alison.

She smiled. “I do that, too. Just … usually not when I’m alone.”

“Ah, but, that’s the best time to do it,” he countered with a return smile and a heavy serving of that blue-eyed, angel-faced honesty that he’d always done so well, even back when he was small.

Especially back when he was small.

She handed him his wallet through the window. “I wanted to give that back to you. I figured you’d need it to buy yourself dinner.”

“Invitation, invitation,” I said.
“Any chance I can buy
you
dinner, too?”

“Thanks.” A.J., the fool, was steadfastly ignoring me. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know if the crew’s hiring carpenters?”

“Oh,” Alison said. “No, I don’t think so. Everyone’s union, so … But we
are
still looking for extras. Of course, the pay isn’t that great. A hundred dollars a day.”

“A hundred bucks for standing around?” A.J. asked, bemused.

“In the hot sun,” she pointed out. “We have an air-conditioned tent for the extras, between shots. The stars have their trailers.”

“You, um, don’t mind?” A.J. interrupted. “If I, you know, stick around for a while …?”

“Actually, I’d like it if you did,” she said, with that directness that I found so appealing. “Very much. I’d like to talk to you more about your great-grandfather.”

“You would?” A.J. was as surprised as I was.

But she was quick to add, “I’m not saying I believe you’re related to Kid Gallagher—”

“For the
love,”
I said, “of
God
 …”

“Jamie,” A.J. interrupted her. “Not Kid. Jamie.”

“Right,” she said. “Sorry. I just … You seem to be who you say you are, and it’s possible that your great-grandfather knew Jamie Gallagher—maybe even took that money that he stole from the Jubliation Bank and Trust—”

“He didn’t steal any money,” A.J. interrupted her.

“Maybe not in your version of the story,” Alison pointed out, “which I definitely want to hear. But, just for the record? In the version of the story that I know, Kid Gallagher, not Jamie but Kid, cleaned out the bank before kidnapping and killing Melody Quinn. It’s entirely possible, in fact, it’s
likely
that he had a cohort. If that cohort survived, he might’ve taken the money, gone to Alaska, built a new life for himself. You know, with a new name …?”

“The name of a wanted man?”

“The name of a dead man,” Alison countered, “who later—much later as the story spread—became known as the man who killed Melody Quinn.”

A.J. glanced at me.

“She’s willing to hear our story,” I said, taking that look as an invitation to give an opinion. “I think you should do the extra-actor thing. Stick around Jubilation for a while. Maybe even get laid. Damnit,
I
apparently think aloud, too.”

“I gotta go,” Alison said. “I’ve got a dinner thing tonight and a lot of work to do before then. The real actor who’s playing Gallagher is coming in this afternoon and … You know, if you’re serious about signing on as an extra, go see Lucy in the main production trailer. She’ll tell you where to go for a costume fitting. And don’t let them scrimp. Make
sure you get boxers or you’ll end up going commando. I don’t want any briefs underneath those jeans. And don’t try to cheat—I
can
tell when you’re wearing them, and they
will
come off.”

And with that she flashed another of those beautiful smiles and hurried away.

A.J. closed his window. “Don’t say anything,” he told me. “Not one word.”

I stayed silent for maybe fifteen seconds, then figured what the hell. “I just … love you and want you to be happy,” I told him. “Is that so wrong? And that girl—woman—has your immediate happiness written all over her interesting face.”

He laughed as he shook his head no, but he didn’t look at me. Instead he looked steadily out the window. “I love you too, Gramps,” he said. “But please, just … don’t.”

“I’m also really here,” I told him, bringing our conversation back to where we were before Alison interrupted. “Your mother, as much as I love her, too, is dead wrong about that one.”

“You are really here,” A.J. agreed. “One way or the other, you’re here and I’ve gotta deal with it.” He finally looked up. “Dr. Carter wants to hear your story, so I’ll tell her your story. And then I’ll go home. You can go with me or you can stay here in Jubilation—it’s up to you.”

“Your mother
is
wrong,” I told him again, and he nodded but I knew he didn’t believe me.

A.J. Gallagher was sticking around.

Alison felt inordinately pleased about that, particularly about her theory that Kid Gallagher had had an accomplice. Maybe a cousin or even a brother—which would explain the almost uncanny resemblance between A.J. and her pictures of the ridiculously handsome Kid.

Jonathan White, the actor who was playing the Kid in the movie, was much smaller and, although handsome, was no Jamie or A.J. Gallagher. He’d dropped by, not to talk, but to pick up a copy of her file. His assistant, Bonnie, lingered to explain that Jon’s method of preparing for a role demanded privacy and isolation. If he had any questions about her notes or research, she—Bonnie—would be in touch.

So that happened. Which left Alison with several hours of time to flesh out her theory.

And, as she dug through her computer files, she found exactly what she was looking for. A note she’d made on one of her first trips to Philly, where Kid Gallagher had been born. It said that his older brother, Caldwell, nicknamed Wells, not only had the same middle name, James, but had mysteriously died—
allegedly
died—the very same day that the fifteen-year-old Kid had left his blue-blooded, old-money family behind and struck out on his own, heading west.

Try as she might, Alison had never found any record of Caldwell’s cause of death. There was also no record of his burial place, which was equally odd. All of the other Philadelphia
Gallaghers—except for Austin, aka Kid—were buried together in a peaceful, well-kept cemetery in Germantown.

Caldwell James Gallagher was three years older than his outlaw brother, and was known for his artistic and musical talents and …

Her trailer rocked on its wheels, as if someone had run full force into it—Wile E. Coyote–style.

“No, no, don’t—
don’t! Please!
I’ll have the money for him next week, I swear!”

That sounded like Trace Marcus’s voice, and sure enough, as Alison went to the window and pulled back the curtain, she could see that it was, indeed, the actor. Two men had pinned him to the side of her trailer.

They looked as if they’d come straight from central casting.
Hi, can you send down a cross between Stan and Ollie and two of the thugs from
Reservoir Dogs?

One was tall and built like a refrigerator, the other was shorter but almost as stocky. The shorter man was dressed in urban casual—jeans that defied gravity, and a T-shirt that bore a skull and crossbones. He had densely colorful tattoos that ran down both arms all the way to his wrists and up his neck toward a head that was carefully clean-shaven. Blue eyes, Fu Manchu mustache, and a soul patch completed the look.

He had one arm pushed up beneath Trace’s quivering chin, his other hand grasping the actor’s hair.

“Ow!” Trace said. “Ow, ow! Please!”

Tall guy was more conservatively dressed. Darker jeans, plain black shirt. He stood nearby and watched, his craggy face expressionless. Brown eyes, long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, he had a deep scar beneath one eye—as if someone, years ago, had tried to blind him and missed.