On the way to the airport I figured out another piece. It just hit me. The A's and B's on the children's stickers at the crime scenes. I knew what the letters meant. Mary's imaginary children's names - Ashley, Adam, Brendan. Two A's and a B.
I phoned it in on my way out of L.A.
Mary, Mary
Part Five
END OF STORY
Mary, Mary
Chapter 99
THE STORYTELLER WAS DONE KILLING. Fini. It was over, and no one would ever know the whole truth about what had happened. End of story.
So he threw himself a party with some of his best buddies from Beverly Hills.
He told them he'd just gotten a gig writing a screenplay for an A-list director, a big, dopey thriller based on a dopey bestseller. He'd been given license to change anything he didn't like, but that was all he could say about it right now. The director was paranoid - so what's new? But a big party was definitely in order.
His friends thought they understood what was going down, which gave him some idea how little they knew him.
His best friends in the world - and hell, none of them knew him at all. None of them suspected he could be a killer. How fricking unbelievably crazy was that? No one knew him. The party was at the Snake Pit Ale House, a bar on Mel- rose where they'd held a fantasy football league during his early days in L.A., soon after he'd arrived from Brown University to act, and maybe dabble at writing scripts - serious, worthy stuff, not box-office crap.
“The order of the night is free beer,” he said as each of his buds arrived at the bar, “and wine for the wussies among you. So I guess it's vino all around?”
Nobody drank wine, not one of the fourteen pals who came to the bash. They were all glad to see him out and about, and also about his new gig - though some of the more honest ones admitted they were jealous. Everybody started calling him “A-list.”
He and David and Johnboy and Frankie were still at the bar when it closed at a little past two. They were overanalyzing a movie called We Don't Live Here Anymore. They finally more or less stumbled outside and exchanged Hollywood hugs on the street next to Johnny's fucking Bentley - talk about A-list - the spoils of the last movie he'd produced, a 400-million-dollar grosser worldwide, which made all the rest of them sick because all he'd done was buy a dipshit graphic novel for fifty thousand then sign up the Rock for ten mil. Genius, right? Yep - 'cause it worked.
“Love ya, man. You're the best, you sick, obnoxious, ostentatious bastard. You too, Davey!” he yelled as the silver Bentley pulled away from the curb and sped west.
“I know - I'm just a bastard right now,” David yelled back. “But I have dreams of being sick, obnoxious, and ostentatious, too. And talented - which is what's holding me back in this town.“ ”Hey, man - I hear you, I feel ya,” he yelled.
“Seeya, A-list! Ya hack!”
“I'm just a storyteller!” he yelled back.
Then he was kind of floating down a side street to his own car, a seven-year-old Beamer.
Not a Suburban. He was definitely three sheets to the wind. Happy as a pig out of a blanket - humming jimi Hendrix's “The Wind Cries Mary” An in-joke that only he would get.
Until suddenly he began to sob, and he couldn't make himself stop, not even when he was sitting on the lawn of some grungy apartment building with his head down between his legs, bawling like a baby And he was thinking,Just one more, just one.
One more kill and I'll be good.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 100
THE NEXT MORNING, he couldn't sleep, and he drove up and down Meirose - past IJAngelo, which used to be Emilio's; the Groundling Theater where Phil Hartman got his start; Tommy Tang's; the original Johnny Rockets; the Blue Whale. His city, man. His and Proud Mary's.
It was around 5:30 or so when he bounced into the Star- bucks on Melrose, which used to be The Burger that Ate LA back in the day Man, he did not like Starbucks, but they were open, the greedy little Yuppie bastards. The numbers dictated that they be open, right?
The numbers ran everything these days.
And here he was - proving the number crunchers right. Five-thirty in the A.M. and he was already making their day God, he despised these dipshit coffee places, the new McDonald's, overpriced rip-offs.
He remembered when a cup of coffee was fifty cents, which seemed about right. But “Sumatra blend” - now that was worth two-fifty if it was worth a nickel. For a tall, which really meant a small.
And the goateed schmo minding the store was too busy setting up shop to give any attention to his paying customer, his early bird, the day's first sucker.
He let it go for a minute or so, but the jerk was starting to piss him off royally “Be right back,” he finally told the superbusy “barista” behind the counter, and the guy still hardly noticed him. What an ass and a half. No doubt, an actor out of work. Too good for the job, right? With an attitude - which was supposed to be a good thing these days.
A minute later, he reentered the Starbucks with a piece in his jacket pocket. He was starting to rev-up now. This was probably stupid, definitely not too smart, but God, it felt pretty good.
Hey, pal, my gun is getting thirsty.
Right then and there, the decision was made. This arrogant fuck wannabe actor was going down for the count. He was tomorrow's headlines today “Hey buddy, I'm waiting here for some coffee. You got any coffee at Starbucks?”
The barista didn't look up from his busy work even then, just waved a free hand. “Be with ya.”
The Storyteller, the Storyteller, heard the door open behind him. Another sucker arrives.
“Hey, morning, Christopheic” A woman's chirpy voice came from behind. He didn't even turn to look at her. Screw her, too.
“Hiya, Sarah,” called the counter guy And he was suddenly all chirpy, too. Now the jackass came to the front, now he wakes up. For Sarah.
And that's when he shot the dude in the chest, right in the Starbucks apron.
“Forget the coffee, Christopher. Don't need it now I'm already wired.”
Then he turned to see about the woman. First time he ever looked at her.
Chirpy-looking blonde, maybe midthirties, wearing a black leather jacket over black pedal pushers, black thongs, too.
“Hey, morning, Sarah,” he said, casual-like and friendly as a cocker spaniel off its leash in the park. “Wearing black for the funeral?”
"Excuse me And he shot her, too. Twice. Then one more for the barista.
Just one more kill, right? he was thinking. Well, maybe two more.
He robbed the cash register, took Sarah's ratty buckskin pocketbook, and off he went into the early morning L.A. smog, heading west, across Stanley, Spaulding, Genessee.
Mary Smith rides again, right?
Mary, Mary
Chapter 1 01
I LOOKED AT JANNIE in the rearview mirror. “The Spy Museum, huh?” I asked.
She nodded. “Absotootly”
Jannie had drawn Saturday afternoon in our little lottery Tonight was mine, Sunday day was Nana's, and Sunday night was Damon's time to howl. The Cross Family Weekend was all mapped out, and it was already under way We spent the afternoon learning about ninja, cloak-and- dagger, and shadow spies, a construct I must have missed in my classes at Quantico. The kids tested their powers of observation in the School for Spies, and even I was impressed with some of the future- world props and models they had in the 21st Century section.
Since dinner was my choice, I decided to introduce everyone to Ethiopian food. Jannie and Damon did fairly well with some of the more exotic tastes - except for the kitfo, essentially steak tartare. Still, they liked eating with their fingers, which Nana called “real down-home cooking.”