The Dead Don't Speak (5 page)

"What the hell you doing back there, boy?" Walter's voice cut through Zach's daydream.

"I... I'm sorry," Zach stammered.

"Sorry, folks," Walter said to the audience, "he was off in a world of his own. But now, here is the Boy Psychic."

The crowd let out a run of half-hearted applause as Zach came through the rear barn door and took the stage. He couldn't help looking at Margaret and Cayte, who both beamed smiles at him. Margaret waved her fingers.

"My name's Zach," he said to the audience. He hated the title "Boy Psychic"; it was almost as bad as "Psychic Boy". Zach noted Walter exiting the barn the way the crowd had come in. The relief he felt helped him get into the proper state of mind.

After his show, Zach went with Margaret and Cayte to their camper. Margaret was a good cook and that was all the convincing Zach needed. The two ladies were quickly adopting Zach as a sort of interesting mascot. They had a late lunch of grilled chicken, then Cayte and Zach went to explore the midway.

"I can't wait to be done with fairs," Cayte said.

"I hate how they smell."

"I know. The fry oil stink makes me want to barf. Can you imagine eating that crap every day?"

Zach shook his head.

"People do it though. No wonder everyone's fat."

"Yeah," Zach said, unsure of what Cayte meant. Not everyone was fat. He wasn't fat, she wasn't fat, Margaret wasn't fat, and even Walter wasn't
that
fat.

There wasn't much time to consider it before the idea was obliterated from his mind when Cayte said, "Do you hate your dad as much as I hate my mom?"

"I don't hate my dad."

"He was the one taking the money to get into your show, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"He smelled like whiskey."

"I know."

"He hits you, too, doesn't he?"

"Only sometimes."

Until I'm big enough.

"My mom hasn't hit me since I was thirteen but that's because I hit her back," Cayte said. "We got into this whole big fight," she smiled now. "She gave me a black eye and I couldn't sing for two days because makeup wouldn't cover it."

Zach didn't say anything. He got the impression Cayte needed to get some things off her chest.

"Now she mostly ignores me. When she does speak to me it's a veiled insult. That or I need to fix something with my hair or makeup before I go on."

"She seems nice," Zach said, knowing Cayte was probably right.

"She's not. She's a stage parent. You know what a stage parent is?" She didn't give Zach a chance to answer. "A stage parent is a person who lives through their kid's success. Margaret has been putting me on stages since I was eight. She hired me a voice coach who taught me a little, and I had a guitar teacher who taught me more - but that only lasted 'til I was ten. I mostly taught myself to sing and play."

Zach looked at Cayte, her voice had hitched a beat when she mentioned the guitar teacher. There was something there.

"Is my dad a stage parent?" Zach asked.

"That depends, does he make you do your show whether you feel like it or not?"

"Yes."

"Does he talk to you between shows or at night?"

"Sometimes."

"When he's not too drunk or angry?"

Zach didn't like Cayte's insight into his father and, more importantly, their relationship as father and son.

"He talks to me enough."

"Well whatever, I hope I'm wrong about him. You want to go on a ride or something?" Cayte was looking around, disinterested in everything.

"I don't like rides," Zach said.

"Why not? You're a little boy. You should like rides."

"I'm almost a teenager and I don't like rides. The people who run them are weird."

"This coming from the Boy Psychic," Cayte said, still not looking at Zach.

"I hate that name," he said quietly.

"What's that?"

"I'm Zach, not Boy Psychic."

Now Cayte looked him in the eye, "Okay," she smiled, finally seeing they had something in common. "You're Zach."

Zach nodded emphatically.

"Like I was saying, I can't wait to be done with fairs. We're going to Las Vegas in a couple weeks. I have an audition there."

"An audition for what?"

"CBS is starting a new show about singing. Margaret says they're trying to compete with American Idol and The Voice. I am going to audition. They hold auditions, open calls really, in a bunch of cities but Margaret wants to go to Vegas. Works for me. I've never been," Cayte shrugged. "Looks fun."

"CBS the TV station?"

"Yes?"

"You're going to be on TV?"

Cayte laughed a little, she watched a carnival ride go zipping along, "I hope so."

"When is the audition?"

"Don't know. Margaret won't say."

That doesn't sound right.

*****

Cassandra Hernandez and her friend Sarah drove along the Strip in Sarah's car.

"You're shitting me," Sarah said. "You fucked Simon Simmons? Like
the
Simon Simmons?"

"Three times. For an older guy he's got stamina."

"Eww. He's like forty!"

Cassandra considered it. "Probably, but he's Simon Simmons. Plus he chose me over this blond bimbo they brought in."

"They brought you in where? Like, did you stand in a line or something? Did he walk along and pick the one he wanted to stick it in?"

"Oh gross, no! This blond woman and I got backstage passes. We had a drink together, he blew the other woman off, and we ended up going to bed. No big deal."

"No big deal? Did you happen to mention that you're seventeen? Does he know he gave a minor alcohol and statutory raped her?"

"Raped? Oh, please! I'm surprised I didn't leave a puddle on the couch while we were talking."

"No, statutory rape is when an adult has sex with a minor. It's illegal."

"I know what it is. But so what? It's not like I'm going to turn him in. It was a fun night."

The two rode in slow silence for a while. Traffic on the Strip was always a hassle, but it was fun to people-watch from Sarah's Jaguar. Sarah's mom was a casino executive and she'd bought it for Sarah's sixteenth birthday. Daphne Carter liked to spoil her daughter.

"You know, my mom mentioned him a couple times," Sarah said. "Not to me but I hear her on the phone the nights when she's home. Simon Simmons makes a lot of money."

"So what?" Cassandra said.

"So, what if he knew he'd slept with a minor? Gotten her drunk first, then slept with her. He might want to keep that a secret."

"Probably, but still, so what? I'm not going to blackmail the guy. He didn't do anything I didn't want."

"If you say so. But wouldn't like," Sarah pulled a figure out of the air, "a quarter million dollars help you sleep a little easier at night? Your college would be paid for."

"The money would be nice to have. But I refuse to get it like that," Cassandra's tone conveyed the finality of her decision. On the other hand, she was only a couple months away from turning eighteen, and Simon Simmons was single. That could be her chance at the good life.

It was dusk in Texas and a cool north breeze was easing the humidity. Margaret pressed her face against the barn and peered around the corner. Walter Hepson was seated in a lawn chair listening to a baseball game on the radio and sipping whiskey in front of 'Ol Rusty. A few days prior Zach had mentioned they were staying right behind the barn where he did his show. Margaret was a careful hunter. She had watched Walter walk around the fair, looking for places that served beer, and finally going back to his camper to drink liquor alone.

Margaret adjusted her tube top and came around the corner of the barn with a smile on her face.

"Some show your boy puts on," she said.

Walter looked up, ready for a fight until he saw the woman approaching.

"Yeah. Hell of a show," he said.

"You must be so proud."

"He's a good kid. Real proud of 'im."

As Margaret neared the camper she motioned toward the steps, indicating she wanted to sit. Walter gestured toward them with a sloppy wave of his hand, inviting her to do so.

Margaret sat and crossed her legs. Walter made no effort to conceal the fact that he was staring at them.

Good, she thought. This'll be easy.

Over the past week, Cayte and Zach had been spending a lot of time together, growing close, Margaret hoped. Cayte was a great singer, but that wasn't always enough. She wanted a backup plan if Cayte's entertainment career didn't pan out, and she'd found it in Zach.

Margaret wasn't sure if the boy was actually able to hear the dead or if he could just read people that well. Everything about him suggested he was just a normal pre-teen boy, but when he got on stage something special happened. He wasn't a showman by any stretch of the imagination, but that could be taught. What Zach was able to provide was a palpable presence, which couldn't be taught. So here Margaret was, ready to take over the life of Walter Hepson and, by extension, his son, Zach.

"Good game?" Margaret asked.

"They'll choke. Just wait."

"Aren't ya gonna offer a lady a drink?"

"What's your pleasure?" Walter asked, slurring a little.

To answer his question Margaret reached out to take his glass. She let her hand linger on his a moment before she slipped the vessel from his grip, brought the glass to her lips, and tossed the remainder back.

"'Nother one of those would be fine," Margaret said.

"Comin' up."

Walter rose, swayed slightly, and said, "'Scuse me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Margaret lifted herself off the step and stood aside so that Walter may enter.

"No problem," Walter said. "Don't you go nowhere while I'm gone," he called in a drunken singsong.

"No worries, hon."

While Walter was inside, Margaret went beside the barn to retrieve the lawn chair she'd brought along in case things went well. She arranged their chairs side by side in front of the radio.

Walter returned with two mismatched glasses of whiskey and ice. He handed one to Margaret who now sat in her own seat. If Walter noticed the mysterious appearance of another chair, he didn't mention it.

The sky was darker now, dusk melting into night, the brightest stars beginning to appear.

"Good to see a woman who can hold her whiskey," Walter said.

"Oh, honey, on the right night I could drink you flat under the table."

"Tonight might be that night," Walter said and laughed heartily.

"Never know," Margaret teased. She sipped her whiskey, unsure of the brand.

They sat for a while listening to the crackling baseball game. Margaret wanted to let the tension build, let this drunk get his hopes up. She had to let the guy have the dream before she could make it come true.

Margaret crossed her legs toward Walter. Her foot brushed his shin then rested against it.

"Not a big fan of baseball," she said. Margaret nodded toward the radio, "You get any music on that thing?"

"Sure," Walter lit up at having been spoke to, "what kind you like?"

"I'm a country girl."

Walter fiddled with the knob until a song that sounded country came out of the speakers. He had trouble telling with the new crap being made today. Margaret hummed along a bit then finished her whiskey. A slow song came on.

Margaret gave it about thirty seconds then said, "Aren't you goin' to ask me to dance?"

Walter, brimming with liquid confidence, said, "I was just about to."

"Well, let’s do it, sugar."

They rose and walked behind the radio, so as to not trip over their chairs. Walter took Margaret's hand in one of his and placed his other on her hip. They swayed to the music, more than once Margaret had to help steady Walter, lest he fall. The song ended and an advertisement came on.

"Damn commercials," Walter said.

"Let it go. A new song'll start soon."

"Ain't every day I get to dance with a pretty lady."

Walter knelt beside the radio and did some more fiddling, before long a new song emerged. To his delight, it was another slow one.

"I can't remember the last time I saw a radio like that," Margaret said.

"It's old. I'd get a new one but this here don't break, so I got no need."

Walter and Margaret went back to dancing. This time, after a couple steps, Margaret wrapped her slender arms around Walter's neck. They danced that way until the song ended.

"How 'bout another drink," Margaret said.

"All right," Walter replied, disappointed that he had to let go.

As Walter made his way up the camper steps, he didn't notice Margaret following him. It wasn't until he was pulling down the bottle that he felt someone was in the camper with him.

Margaret didn't speak. She went to Walter, took the whiskey from his hand, and set it on the grimy kitchen table. She took his hand and led him to the bed at the opposite end of the camper, turning off the overhead light as she passed the switch.

"My boy might come back," Walter said.

"He won't, my daughter is watching him tonight."

Walter couldn't remember the last time he'd heard such a wonderful sentence.

*****

"She offered me three million if we take the show to Versailles," Chris said. He was trying to talk to Simon. Unfortunately, Simon was preoccupied with his reflection in the large, dressing room mirror.

"That Daphne Carter is something, isn't she? Offered me fifteen and a suite. What do you think we can actually get out of her?" Simon said.

"I don't hold much hope for more than three for myself. I'm not the show, you are." When necessary, Chris could play Simon's ego like Jerry Lee Lewis.

Simon nodded to Chris in the mirror. "I think I'll ask for twenty. Don't know if she'll go that high but it never hurts to ask, right?"

"Doesn't hurt," Chris agreed. "But don't get too stubborn. You know how Vegas shows go, they fade in and out. Get as much guaranteed money as you can and ease up on the rest."

"Why are you telling me this?" Simon asked.

"For when you talk to Daphne Carter. I need you to stay focused."

"I'm not talking to Daphne Carter. You are."

"I am?" Chris said, suddenly a little worried Simon knew about the five million dollar offer.

"Aren't you my manager?"

Chris relaxed, even managed a snort of laughter, "I suppose I am."

"Well, get on the phone and do your job." Chris knew it was a joke, but it stung a little anyway.

"So what is your bottom line? Half guaranteed, paid up front, the rest annually over the three-year contract?"

"Works for me," Simon was barely paying attention now. "Just make sure the suite is good."

"Should I start with a counter offer for twenty?"

"Sure," Simon said to his reflection.

Chris had done some digging into Daphne Carter's life after their conversation a week ago. Her life was quite banal, she being the type who worked all the time. She had a husband and daughter, a house by Spanish Trail Country Club on Innisbrook Avenue, and neither Daphne nor her husband Tim were involved in social media.

That was all right though, because their daughter Sarah was. Chris had spent some time researching Sarah and found a familiar face in many photos and on various friends’ lists, Cassandra Hernandez. He remembered the curvy Cassandra from the green room.

You better hope I'm never called to testify against you,
Chris thought as he watched Simon examine his chin in the mirror. Cassandra wasn't the first high-schooler Simon had slept with, and Chris was certain she wouldn't be the last.

Chris took out his cell phone and called Daphne Carter.

"Carter," she answered.

"Ms. Carter, Chris and Simon here," Chris had it on speaker phone.

"Ah! I've been waiting to hear back from you. What's the word?"

"Looking to talk numbers," Chris said. "Simon would like twenty, with half guaranteed and paid up front. The other ten split and paid annually the following two years."

Chris heard Daphne sigh. If Simon heard he didn't show it.

"Twenty with ten up front is out of the question. If you want half up front I will go as high as sixteen but that's it. That and three for Chris puts us at nineteen million - that's not peanuts, gentlemen."

Chris was thankful Daphne had said three million and not five. The woman was sharp.

"What do you think, Simon?" Chris asked.

"What about the suite?" Simon said loud enough for Daphne to hear.

"Suite is still part of the deal," she said.

"I know, but tell me about it," Simon said.

"Big space, hot tub, small bar, California king bed, nice balcony; you should come check it out. The old French style of the hotel is really something to see. Ever been to France?"

Simon didn't see what this had to do with his suite but he played along.

"Not yet."

"Quite a place."

"Versailles is a palace in France," Chris said to Simon.

"Built for Louis the fourteenth in the late sixteen hundreds," Daphne said, then added, "a beautiful place and our hotel does it justice."

"So sixteen, half guaranteed, the rest paid the following two years, four million a year, the suite is still part of the deal, and three for me paid up front," Chris said.

"Hold it right there," Daphne said. "We will pay you half up front too, Chris, not the entire amount."

Chris smiled, "You caught me. Sounds like a deal. What do you think, Simon?"

Simon nodded.

"I've got Simon nodding here. I think we're in business. What's your plan for dealing with Camelot?"

"I've put a bug in Jimmy Spinner's ear about a contract buy-out. Jimmy's always had a little crush on me. He said he'd take it upstairs. He'll be my next phone call," Daphne said.

"How long we looking at here?" Chris asked.

"Month, maybe two, to hammer out the final deal and get it inked."

"Sounds good. Talk to you soon, Daphne," Chris said and hung up.

"She sounds hot," Simon said.

*****

Cassandra thought about what Sarah had said. Her friend was too polite to come right out and tell Cassandra that her family was poor and she had better do something if she didn't want a similar kind of life. Marrying rich was a viable option. She had the looks and, thanks to her trip to the Simon Simmons show, she also had a good prospect.

Sarah's idea about blackmail was foolish. She couldn't prove anything had happened. Simon hadn't worn a condom, which seemed like a mistake to Cassandra now. She wasn't worried about getting pregnant, a man like Simon Simmons wouldn't risk
that
- she assumed he'd taken other precautions. But STD's were everywhere in this city.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary though, so she let that idea go. Cassandra smiled to herself. She knew how to get with Simon. He was a man after all, an aging man, and alone. How could he not go for her? She was young and pretty. Plus, Simon damn well knew she was willing.

After the call to Daphne Carter, Chris left and Simon went up to his suite. He was relaxing, watching TV, having a drink when there came a knock at the door. This was unusual for the middle of the day. Simon walked to the door and put his eye to the peephole.

Just beyond the door was a Mexican girl who looked vaguely familiar. It took a couple seconds to remember where he knew her from. It was too soon for her to claim to be pregnant, which was impossible anyway. Simon had had a vasectomy years ago. He opened the door.

"Hi," Simon said to her, still unable to remember her name.

"Hi, Simon. May I come in?"

"Sure," he stepped aside. "What brings you around?"

"I wanted to see you again."

"Well, here I am. What can I do for you?"