Payback (3 page)

The Gringo Returns.

He went into the bedroom and sprawled on the covers with some crackers and a beer. The muscle in his thigh was going stiff on him again and he shucked off his trousers and propped the thing up against a bolster from the bed. He looked at it slowly with a hard narrowed eye.

Jesus, he thought, that is one ugly leg.

For a moment he pictured it straight, unmangled and strapped in a ski boot and flying down a hill. Colorado State Intermediate Champion of 1967. Known to the fans as The Colorado Kid. Big hot shit.

He pulled at his beer now and wondered once again about what kind of future would have happened to the Kid if that leg had stayed straight. Probably nothing. Ski bum. Aging instructor at Vail. Only that would be, of course, to forget about the war—and whatever would have happened to The Colorado Kid with a severed femur and four-hundred-sixty-seven stitches, by count. And the answer to that would be “bum,” forget “ski,” so considering the options, he hadn't done wrong. Or at least, having done it, he'd done a little right. But the kid from Colorado—oh shit, he thought, forget about the kid from Colorado. The kid was a fraud and a chickenshit coward and a mangy little thief.

But aside from that, he was a hell of a skier.

He dreamt about a Colorado mountainful of snow. Virgin fields of it, effortless flight, and was suddenly, surprisingly, awakened by the phone.

He clicked the machine on and squinted at the clock: quarter of five.

“
This is Bob Mitchell speaking, leave your message at the beep.
”

He waited, bleary. There was slight hesitation, then a voice:

“Mr. Mitchell. This is the police.…”

2

Five in the morning and all of Wilshire Boulevard could have been a palm-lined bowling alley. Nothing was moving on the street. He tried to keep anything from moving in his mind. Wait, he kept telling it. Stay very still. Feeling like he'd felt doing recon in the jungle, like everything depended on an absolute calm, and the deadliest enemies you'd meet were in your head, the ones that could freeze you into fatal attitudes and bend your antenna, picture going black. Dawn patrol, he thought. It was that kind of time. The sky was still dark; the lamps were still lit and the sun was still an optimist's article of faith.

He turned on the radio, ranging through the dial till he caught it on the news, heard it officially. “… deaths have been linked to the artificial sweetener Naturalite, made by Tate Pharmaceuticals. According to officials, the contaminated packets had been laced with a substance called TMF, a synthetic narcotic capable of causing instantaneous death. Repeating this bulletin: Federal officials have confirmed seven deaths, five in Los Angeles and two in New York, and have linked—”

He turned it off, felt suddenly sweaty and opened a window, then lit a cigarette. From the moment he'd heard it, he'd sprung into action—awakened his secretary, told her who to call, grabbed three packs of cigarettes, and headed for his car. Whatever he was feeling had been purely physical—a fist that kept rising from the center of his stomach and wedging in his throat.

Braking at the intersection of La Brea, allowing a couple of purple-haired rockers to wobble to their car, he decided it was probably time to let it out. Or failing in that, to give a moment of appropriate silence for the dead.

There were seven people dead.

Seven people dead because—no, he thought quickly, forget about because. Dead people didn't give a shit about because. Which was one of the legitimate rewards of being dead. Nor did they particularly hunger for silence. The dead had been stranded in a hallway of silence, what they wanted was noise.

He turned on the radio and got a little jazz. Erroll Garner doing “Hot Toddy.” Joe Williams vocal going,

Hot toddy

Sure makes a body

Feel might nice …

Well … there you go.

He turned at La Brea, aware that he was already turning from the subject; not that it surprised him. He couldn't think of death without running into walls. He wasn't—or hoped that he wasn't—indifferent, he simply had a feel for the futility of thought, the notorious impotence of piety and wit. What you knew could hurt you and could help no one else so the thing was, Whistle. Hear your own breath. Help the living and bury the dead and whistle while you work. Legacy of war: A grunt named Merriweather staring at a chopper that was dropping like a stone, saying, “Hey lookit Dumbo, man. Thinks he can fly.” Or the guy named The Doctor with the Latin tattoo running right around his pectoral:
Joco Ergo Sum
. I joke, therefore I am.

He turned off La Brea and aimed at the driveway of a glitzy little tower; going down the ramp; electronically injecting himself into gloom. He had to use keys to get into the lobby and he rode in the elevator jingling the chain.

The reception room was lit.
TATE PHARMACEUTICALS
spelled out in silver on a copper-colored wall. Janet, his secretary, moving through the arch. She looked at him somberly and said, “Welcome home.”

Mitchell said, “Thanks.”

In his office she handed him a carton of coffee. His telephone was ringing. Janet picked it up and said, “Tate Pharmaceuticals” like nothing was the matter, like it's just another five-in-the-morning-on-the-phone. He watched her with approval. The lady, at fifty, had a new-fashioned swagger with an old-fashioned grace. She'd arrived in a jogging suit but all of her makeup. She said to the telephone, “I'm sorry but it's true.… Definitely.…” Pivoting, she mouthed at him,
Cy
. He said, “No.” She said, “No, he's in a meeting right now.… No, Mr. Tate, he's really in a meeting.… Right. I'll have him call you. Definitely. Right.”

He waited while she hung up the telephone and sat. She looked at him slowly. “The
Examiner
called him.”

“Did he talk to them?”

“No.”

“Good. Call Gucci's and order him a muzzle.—What else is going on?”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “Leo's coming over. Jake is at the plant. George is in the men's room, he's either attempting to vomit or to shave. A man from the FDA is coming over and then we've got a couple of inspectors and lieutenants.”

He opened his coffee and said in a soft voice, “How you doing?”

She said, “I was wondering the same about you.”

He said nothing for a moment, then he said, “I think we need some legal men this morning. Is Zef coming over?”

“Any minute,” Janet said.

“Good. Then let's try and get an advertising man. Let's try and get Scully. If he's not in his bedroom, I tell you what you do. You can pick up the phone book, you can check it for a number named Pepper Salerno. In Hollywood, I think.” He looked at her quickly. “Unless,” he said, “it makes you uncomfortable to call.”

She shrugged. “Not me. The only thing that makes me uncomfortable is girdles.—Go on.”

“I want to set up a customer hotline. Number they can call with any questions on their mind. Meaning we need to get an eight hundred number and a perforated ulcer.”

Janet half-smiled.

“Yeah, okay. Smile now,” he said flatly. “You want to spend the morning with the telephone company? You want to explain we need a hundred new phones? And convince them how ‘quickly' doesn't mean ‘in July'? I tell you what you do, you put whatshisname on it. Henderson. He's into Oriental meditation. Maybe he can deep-breathe his way to understanding.”

Janet cocked her head at him. “Anything else? Because your telephone's ringing.”

“Yeah. Let it ring. If the calls are from the press, you better say I'm not ducking but I haven't been briefed, I'll make a statement in a while.”

“That's what I've been telling them.”

He shrugged with both hands. “So why do you need me?”

“You're handsome,” she said. “A good-looking blond kind of brightens up the office.”

He looked at her flatly and picked up a notebook, ignoring a couple of folders on his desk: “Phonecalls received in the last 3 weeks,” and another one with “Letters.”

Telegrams
, he wrote.
Radio Airtime. Box #. Press.

He swiveled in his chair.

Now there was a subject. He could, if he wanted to, think about the press, about getting his “good-looking blondness” on the tube—and the gamble that entailed. The chance it would turn around and bite him in his own very personal ass.

But then if he wanted to get into all that he'd be borrowing disaster, counting his chickens before they came home to roost, so the thing was relax. Take it a step at a time.

He put down his coffee cup and lit a cigarette, then moved across the green-and-brown Oriental carpet to the balcony doors.

Outside it was chilly, starless. A couple of birds making pooped-out noises, little whistlers in the dark, too late for the lovers, too early for the worms. It occurred to him to jump, not kill himself, just make a parachutist's jump, a dream jump. He saw himself sprinting through the grass and disappearing into jungle. Missing. Gone in a puff of smog.

The intercom buzzed.

The telephone rang.

Janet said, “The FDA's on the phone and Leo just got here and Pepper Salerno denies all knowledge of Harrison Scully.”

“He's there,” Mitchell said. “Give him five more minutes and he'll struggle to the phone.”

He pushed down the button and listened intently to the FDA.

3

The radio was practically bursting with the news, the disc jockey sounding like he maybe had a hard-on. “Incredible. Entirely incredible,” he said. “We're investigating very deep space here this morning. There're alien ingredients erupting in the tea—”

“Oh Jesus,” Cy mumbled. He turned the thing off and then looked at his passenger. “So,” he said. “How's it all hangin—okay?”

She looked at him with sleep still crusted in her eye. He hadn't been about to leave the girl in his apartment so he'd made her get up with him. She hadn't been pleased. “I thought you were a movie producer,” she accused him.

“So? I am.—God
dam
it!” Little Mazda getting fancy in his lane. He blew it into line again and passed it. “A driver gets a Japanese car, he gets a Jap personality.—No,” he said. “Why? It's a family business. I don't have to
do
it. All I have to
do
with it is take it to the bank. You ever heard of that concept? Called capitalism.” He laughed and then watched his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked back at him, bloodshot and dark. He reached for his sunglasses. “Grandfather Tate,” he said, “no, okay—
great
-grandfather Tate. Made the first two million. You know what that was worth? I mean in nineteen-hundred?”

The girl cocked her head, getting interested again. “What?” she said, starting to straighten in her seat.

“I don't know,” he said. “Figure maybe fifty times two. Big,” he said. “Anyway, I own a lot of stock.”

“Oh.” She grew thoughtful. “So I guess you're gonna lose a lot of money—that right?”

He looked at her. “I wouldn't start to worry, I was you. We're gonna make that picture. I was you, I'd just worry there was something in my eye.” He handed her a handkerchief. “Here. Clean it up.”

Women, he was thinking. They were metal detectors. They always knew exactly where to look for the gold. Three days ago, his lawyer: “Hey Cyrus. You're behind in your alimony. Twice.”

“Is that one wife two times or two wives once?”

His lawyer hadn't laughed. And anyway the answer had been two wives twice and it wasn't very funny. Money wasn't cute. It was life; it was blood. And nobody knew it any better than Cy. And his moment was coming. In a couple of months he'd have control of the company. Kick that Mitchell in his overrated balls and go sailing into sunsets. Life could be sweet. An epic production. Produced by. Directed by. Written by. Starring.

“I think I'm gonna drop you at the corner here,” he said. Stopping. “Do you mind?”

“What would happen if I did?”

He shrugged at her, grinning. “I'd drop you at the corner.”

“Cy,” she said, “no one ever said you were a gentleman.”

“As long as they spell my name right,” he said.

He watched her for a second as she strode down the street. A lousy little California bimbo, he thought. Easier to make than a bad cup of coffee. He'd met her last night on the plane from New York; four hours later—a plate of lobster and a couple of joints—and she's wetting his blankets. Well, what the hell. Easy come, easy go.

He turned left at Pico and headed up Olympic, already beginning the rehearsal in his mind. The rough scenario of the upcoming scene. Working on the script. Life, Cy had long ago noticed, was a movie; all it ever gave you was the audio and video, no one ever gave you what was dancing in his head. So the point, Cy figured, was to make the right noises and to make the right moves.

He came to the borderline of Beverly Hills; heading north on Rodeo, he was picturing the scene.

INTERIOR—BURT'S LIVING ROOM—MORNING

BURT
and
CAROL
, sitting on the couch. Burt paces over to the bar again, pours. Carol looks up at him with hard disapproval.
SOUND: DOORBELL
.

BURT

That's Cy. I'm telling you, Carol, he'll have an explanation.—Really.

Okay; now Cy would come in. Cy looks troubled but he's clearly in control. An inspirer of confidence. It's there in his walk. Cy holds a legal-size manila envelope loosely in his hand. He sails it to the table.

CLOSE SHOT: ENVELOPE

We
SEE
the words “
SCHNEIDER
” and “
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
” printed on the top.

CY