Bleeding Hearts (26 page)

‘How much would I get paid for this documentary?’ asked Hoffer.

‘Jesus, we don’t talk money yet, Leo. We need to do costings, then present the package to the money men. They’re the final arbiters.’

‘What was Eleanor working on when she died?’

‘The Disciples of Love.’

‘I think I saw that movie.’

‘It’s not a film, it’s a cult.’ So then it took a while for Draper to talk about that. ‘I’ve got some info in my office, if you want it. I should be selling it, not giving it away. I had two detectives took copies away, on top of the half dozen I’d already handed over. It was worth it though. One of them suggested Molly Prendergast take over from Lainie on the Disciples project.’

‘That’s the woman she was with when she got shot?’

‘The same.’

‘What about these two detectives?’

‘The man was called Inspector Best.’

‘West?’ Hoffer suggested. ‘His colleague was a woman called Harris?’

‘Oh, you know them?’

‘It’s beginning to feel that way,’ said Hoffer. ‘Did they ask you what colour clothes Ms Ricks liked to wear?’ Draper was nodding.

‘Uncanny,’ he said.

‘It’s a gift, my grandmother was a psychic. Joe, I’d appreciate it if you could give me whatever you gave them.’

‘Sure, no problem. Now let’s talk about you ...’

After lunch and the post-prandial burger, they went back to Draper’s office for the
Disciples of Love?
folder and a final toot. Hoffer gave Draper his business card, but told him not to call until the producer had some figures.

‘And remember, Joe, I charge by the hour.’

‘So do all the hookers I know. It doesn’t mean they’re not good people.’

The TV show was a late-afternoon recording to go out the following morning. Hoffer went back to his hotel so he could wash and change. He’d bought some new clothes for the occasion, reckoning he could probably deduct them for tax purposes. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt like a fraud. He looked perfect. The suit was roomy, a dark blue wool affair. Even the trousers were lined, though only down to the knees. These London tailors knew their business. Fuckers knew how to charge, too.

With a white shirt and red paisley tie he reckoned he looked reputable and telegenic. It wasn’t always easy to look both. They had a cab coming to pick him up, so all he had to do was wait. The burger wasn’t agreeing with him, so he took something for it, then lay on his bed watching TV. His phone rang, and he unhooked the receiver.

‘Yep?’

‘Mr Hoffer, there’s a letter in reception for you.’

‘What sort of letter?’

‘It’s just arrived, delivered by hand.’

‘Okay, listen, I’m expecting a cab to the television studio.’ He couldn’t help it, though he’d already told the receptionist this. ‘I’ll be leaving in about five minutes, so I’ll grab the letter when I’m going out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hoffer put down the phone fast. His guts were telling him something as he rushed for the bathroom.

Sitting in his cab, he told himself it was the langoustine, had to be. Unless he was getting an ulcer or something; it was that kind of pain, like a cramp. It clamped his insides and squeezed, then let go again. Some colonic problem maybe. No, it was just the food. No matter how lavish a restaurant’s decor, its kitchen was still just a kitchen, and shellfish were still shellfish.

He tore open the brown envelope which had been waiting for him at reception. He knew from his name on the front that the letter was from Barney. There was a single typed sheet inside. God help him, the man had done the typing himself, but only two lines mattered: the two addresses in Yorkshire. The gun dealer called Darrow lived in Barnsley, while the one called Max Harrison lived near Grewelthorpe.

‘Grewelthorpe?’ Hoffer said out loud, not quite believing the name.

‘What’s that, guv?’

‘It’s a town or something,’ Hoffer told the driver.

‘Grewelthorpe.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s in North Yorkshire.’

‘That explains it then, I’ve never been north of Rickmansworth. Yorkshire’s another country, you see them down here for rugby finals and football matches. Strange people, take my word for it. Do you work on the telly then?’

So far this trip, Hoffer had merited only five short newspaper interviews, one piece in a Sunday ‘Lifestyle’ supplement, a magazine article which he had to share with some new private eye movie that was coming out, and half a dozen radio segments. But now TV had picked up on him, and he made the production assistant promise he could have a recording to take away with him.

‘It won’t operate on an American machine,’ she warned him.

‘So I’ll buy a British video recorder.’

‘Remember, we’re 240 volts.’

‘I’ll get a fucking adaptor!’

‘Only trying to help.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.’

She then explained as she led him along corridor after corridor that he would be on with three other guests: a fashion designer, a gay football player, and a woman novelist. She smiled at him.

‘You represent the show’s harder edge.’

‘If I ever survive this goddamned route march,’ Hoffer complained. Then he had an idea. ‘Do you have a library in the building?’

‘Sort of, we’ve got a research unit.’

Hoffer stopped in his tracks, catching his breath. ‘Could I ask you a big favour?’

‘You mean
another
big favour.’ The assistant checked her watch and sighed. She’d probably had guests ask her for blow jobs before. Compared to which, Hoffer reasoned, his was not such an unreasonable demand.

‘Go on,’ she said, ‘what is it?’

So Hoffer told her.

The show itself was excruciating, and they all had to sit in chairs which were like something Torquemada would have had prisoners sit on when they went to the john. All of them except the host, naturally. Jimmy Bridger, as the gay soccer player explained to Hoffer in the hospitality lounge, had been an athlete and then a commentator and now was a TV presenter. Hoffer had a few questions for the soccer player, like whether anyone else would go in the post-match bath the same time as him, but he might need an on-screen ally so instead told the guy how lots of macho American football and baseball players were queens, too.

Then they went on to the set. The audience were women who should have had better things to do at four o’clock in the afternoon. Jimmy Bridger was late, so late Hoffer, already uncomfortable, was thinking of switching chairs. Bridger’s chair was a vast spongy expanse of curves and edges. It sat empty while the show’s producer did a warm-up routine in front of the audience. He told a few gags, made them clap on cue, that sort of stuff. TV was the same the world over, a fucking madhouse. Hard to tell sometimes who the warders were.

Jimmy Bridger looked mad, too. He had a huge wavy hairstyle like an extravagant Dairy Queen cone, and wore a jacket so loud it constituted a public nuisance. He arrived to audience cheers and applause, some of it unprompted. Hoffer knew that the hosts on these shows usually liked to meet the guests beforehand, just to lay ground rules, to check what questions might not be welcome, stuff like that. By arriving so late, Bridger was guilty of either overconfidence or else contempt, which added up to much the same thing. Before the taping began, he shook hands with each guest, apologised again for his tardiness, and gave them a little spiel, but you could see that his main concern was his audience. He just
loved
them. He kissed a few of the grandmothers in the front row. Hoffer hoped they had stretchers standing by for the cardiac seizures.

At last the recording got underway. As Hoffer had hoped he would, Bridger turned to him first.

‘So, Mr Hoffer, what’s one of New York’s toughest private detectives doing here in England?’

Hoffer shifted in his seat, leaning forward towards Bridger. ‘Well, sir, I think you’re confusing me with this gentleman beside me. See,
I’m
the gay NFL player.’

There was a desperate glance from Bridger to his producer, the producer shaking his head furiously. Then Bridger, recovering well after a slow start off the blocks, started to laugh, taking the audience with him. They were so out of it, they ’d’ve laughed at triple-bypass surgery. The interview went downhill from there. They’d probably edit it down to a couple of minutes by tomorrow.

Afterwards, Hoffer didn’t want to bump into Bridger. Well, that was easily arranged. Bridger stuck around the studio, signing autographs and kissing more old ladies. Hoffer moved with speed to the ‘green room’, as they called their hospitality suite. It was a bare room lined with chairs, a bit like a surgery waiting room. Those still waiting to do their shows were like patients awaiting biopsy results, while Bridger’s guests had just been given the all-clear. Hoffer tipped an inch of Scotch down his throat.

‘I thought he was going to pee himself,’ said the gay footballer of Hoffer’s opening gag.

‘That audience would have lapped it up,’ Hoffer said. ‘I mean,
literally.’
He downed another Scotch before collaring the production assistant.

‘Forget the video,’ he told her. ‘You can spring it on me when I’m on
This is Your Life.
What about the other stuff?’

‘I’ve got Mandy from Research outside.’

‘Great, I’ll go talk to her.’

‘Fine.’ And don’t bother coming back, her tone said. Hoffer blew her a kiss, then gave her his famous tongue-waggle. She looked suitably unimpressed. This was in danger of turning into an all right day.

Mandy was about nineteen with long blonde hair and a fashionably anorexic figure.

‘You could do with a meat transfusion,’ Hoffer said. ‘What’ve you got there?’

He snatched the large manila envelope from her and drew out a series of xeroxed map grids.

‘I’ve run over it with green marker,’ she said.

Hoffer could see that. Grewelthorpe: marked in green. The hamlets nearest it were Kirkby Malzeard and Mickley. These were to the south and east. To the west, there were only Masham Moor and Hambleton Hill, some reservoirs and stretches of roadless grey. Further south another hamlet caught his eye. It was called Blubberhouses. What was it with these comedy names? More relevantly, the nearest sizeable conurbations to Grewelthorpe were Ripon and Thirsk, the Yorkshire towns where Mark Wesley had made cash withdrawals.

‘Any help?’ Mandy said.

‘Oh, yes, Mandy, these are beautiful, almost as beautiful as you, my pale princess.’ He touched a finger to her cheek and stroked her face. She began to look scared. ‘Now, I want you to do one more thing for me.’

She swallowed and looked dubious. ‘What?’

‘Tell Uncle Leo where Yorkshire is.’

It wasn’t really necessary to clean the Smith & Wesson, but Hoffer cleaned it anyway. He knew if he got close enough to the D-Man, it wouldn’t matter if the assassin was state-of the-art armed, Hoffer would stick a bullet in his gut.

With the gun cleaned and oiled, he did some reading. He’d amassed a lot of reading this trip: stuff about haemophilia, and now stuff about the Disciples of Love. He didn’t see anything in the Disciples’ history that would unduly ruffle the red, white and blue feathers of the CIA or NSC. Yet Kline was over here, so someone somewhere was very worried about
some
thing. He imagined the assassin reading the same notes he was reading. What would he be thinking? What would be his next step? Would he take up the investigation where his victim had left off? That sounded way too risky, especially if the Disciples were the ones who’d set him up in the first place.

But then again, the D-Man had taken a lot of risks so far, and every risk brought him closer to the surface. Hoffer had a name and a description, and now he had Max Harrison. He knew Bob Broome wasn’t stupid; he’d make the connection too before long. But Hoffer had a start. The only problem was, it meant driving. There were no rail stations close to his destination, so he’d have to hire a car. He’d booked one for tomorrow morning, and had asked for his bill to be made up. He knew that really he should make a start tonight, but he wasn’t driving at night, not when he was heading into the middle of nowhere on the wrong damned side of the road.

He needed a clear head for tomorrow, so confined himself to smoking a joint in his room and watching some TV. Then he took a Librium to help him worm his way into the sleep of the just. After all, no way should he be there on merit.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Leo,’ he muttered. ‘You’re the good guy. You’re the hero, you must be ... Jimmy Bridger told you so.’ He finished the glass of whisky beside his bed and switched off the TV.

On his way to the john, he got a sudden greasy feeling in his gut, and knew what it was. It wasn’t cancer this time, or liquefaction of the bowel. It wasn’t something he’d eaten or something he hadn’t, a bad glass of tap-water or too much hooch.

It was the simple realisation that another day or two would see this whole thing finished.