Sinners (37 page)

*    *    *

Outside in the lobby, Stu Waterman was saying to Mike, ‘I don’t give a fuck what you do with the horses, just get ’em out of here!’

The television crews were removing their equipment. The photographers had already left. The crowds had trickled away, and the policemen gone.

Stu took a swig from his flask and swore with disgust when he found it empty. He needed a vacation, his ulcer was killing him. Working for actors was a lousy way to make a living.

*    *    *

Herbert sat in the car. His palms were sweating but he remained outwardly calm. It was most important to behave in a normal everyday manner.

He started the big limousine, which rolled slowly forward.

He glanced at his watch once more.
The Twelve Guns
had been on for exactly one hour.

He drove the car to the cinema’s parking lot, and got out. Then he unlocked the trunk and removed a brown paper bag, which he placed on the back passenger seat. He locked the car carefully, and went into the theatre.

*    *    *

Charlie just couldn’t believe that anyone could talk so much.

All through the movie, speaking out of the corner of her mouth like some bizarre Southern gangster, Thames kept up a running commentary.

‘You see that guy – we were at drama school together; and that one – baby, what a swinger – living with two chicks and balling day and night . . . now she’s got the worst body I’ve ever seen, where they ever found her I don’t know – just look at those boobs, hangin’ down like grandma’s!!’

‘Will you be quiet
,’ he hissed for the twentieth time.

Pouting, she paid attention to the screen for a minute, then, ‘Pubic hair in
Westerns!
Whee! What next?’

‘
I am telling you
,’ Charlie said angrily, ‘if you don’t shut up I am going to leave you here to talk to yourself. I
can’t stand it.
’

Thames chewed on a fingernail. Jack Julip had promised her a spot on his regular TV show if she could manage to come by his house later and discuss it. It was tempting. Much as she wanted to go to the party with Charlie, maybe a television show would be better exposure.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘Took at that guy’s ass, there’s more bare ass in this movie than
Oh Calcutta!
’

*    *    *

Sunday was finding the film boring and distasteful. It was a strong combination of violence and sex, and apparently nothing else.

Branch was mesmerized. He had just appeared in close-up, and boy was he photogenic! Even the chicken-pox scar next to his mouth looked good. This was his best scene in the movie: four close-ups, ten lines.

*    *    *

Herbert strolled through the lobby. It was very quiet. He walked over to the box-office, where a girl sat silently filing her nails and thinking how much prettier she was than all the movie stars she had seen that evening.

‘I have an urgent message for Miss Sunday Simmons,’ Herbert said. ‘Do you know where she’s sitting?’

The girl inspected Herbert, ordinary and neat in his chauffeur’s uniform. One had to be very careful nowadays with so many lunatics wandering about. She had a special security button by her foot which she was supposed to press if she were robbed or attacked or if any maniacs appeared. This man was certainly all right.

‘I don’t know where she’s sitting,’ she said. ‘I did see her come in. Maybe the boy who took the tickets would know. In fact I’m sure he would, he always notices the celebrities.’

‘Where can I find him?’ He could not control a quick glance at his watch.

‘Oh, he’ll be standing at the back. The tall boy.’

A five-dollar tip and the tall usher immediately accompanied Herbert to where Sunday was sitting.

On screen Branch was slowly unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes staring at the camera.

The usher leaned across Branch and said in a loud stage-whisper, ‘Miss Simmons, I’m sorry to disturb you, but your chauffeur is here. He says it’s very urgent.’

‘Urgent?’ Sunday said in a startled voice.

On screen Branch was slowly unbuttoning his jeans, his eyes staring at the camera.

Sunday stood up and nudged Branch, who was apparently mesmerized by his image on the screen. He didn’t budge, just gave her a hurried push as she squeezed to get past him.

The camera was moving in on his face, which now filled the whole screen. He wondered how Max felt now. He hardly even noticed Sunday leave.

*    *    *

Thames said, ‘That guy sure is one hell of a piece of beefcake. I hear he’s a faggot, isn’t that a waste? I bet I could . . .’

Charlie got up. There was no reason on earth why he had to stay and put up with this. Let her call him all the names she wanted: he was going.

*    *    *

Once in the lobby Herbert took over. He brushed the usher aside who was searching in his pocket for a pen to get her autograph, and said quickly, ‘Miss Simmons, we must hurry. It’s the boy, he’s had an accident. They sent me for you at once.’

Sunday went white. If Claude Hussan had laid one finger on that child . . .

‘Is it bad?’ she asked, the words sticking in her throat.

Herbert nodded gravely, rushing her through the foyer and out to the parking lot.

Politely he held open the door of the car while she climbed in. Then he allowed himself a short sigh of relief.

So far so good.

She was in the trap.

Sunday sat back in the car and closed her eyes tightly. If anything had happened to Jean-Pierre because of her . . . it didn’t bear thinking about.

She couldn’t see a thing in the car. The chauffeur was blocked off by black glass, and the side windows were tinted in such a fashion that she was unable to see out of them. She groped for the button to release the glass between her and the chauffeur, but although she pressed it sharply several times, it didn’t seem to work.

She leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The car glided smoothly on.

Slowly it dawned on her that perhaps this was Claude’s idea of a joke.

*    *    *

In the driving seat Herbert permitted himself a fleeting smile of triumph. It had all been so easy. Masterly planning on his part, of course.

He heard her bang on the glass and his smile widened. He would not reveal too quickly who he was. Let her imagine things. It would do her good to worry a little. Women were much too secure nowadays, everything handed to them on a plate.

When
he
had finished with
Miss
Sunday Simmons, she would
know
who the
master
was.

*    *    *

The car slowed. A traffic light? As soon as it stopped she tried to open the door. It was locked tight. Then the car was off again.

She wasn’t frightened. Nothing Claude could do would frighten her. It was the child she was concerned about. Was the idea to blackmail her to finish the film? She wouldn’t put it past them. She wouldn’t put anything past them.

Damn Branch for sitting in the cinema so entranced by his own image on the screen! He should have come with her. He shouldn’t have let her leave by herself.

She sat back in the seat and composed herself to meet Claude.

*    *    *

Once in the lobby Charlie had second thoughts. Wasn’t it kind of shitty to leave Thames on her own?

Well, a girl like Thames would not be on her own for long. Besides, it was her own bloody fault. The girl had driven him
mad
with her inane chatter.

As he walked towards his car he thought he saw Sunday getting into a black Lincoln. There was something vaguely familiar about the chauffeur. Wasn’t it Herbert something-or-other whom Clay had loaned him?

He quickened his step. They had both agreed on the fact that it was a rotten film, so maybe she would have dinner with him after all.

Before he could reach the Lincoln it moved off in the opposite direction. He got in his Ferrari. Maybe he would just follow her for a bit, see where she was going. After all, he had nothing else to do.

*    *    *

Herbert switched on the speaker and spoke into a small hand microphone.

‘We have the boy. He is quite safe and will remain so as long as you do everything we say.’

‘Who
are
you?’ Sunday asked angrily. ‘Where is Mr Hussan?’

Herbert paused, momentarily taken aback by her anger. He had expected her to be cowed, frightened.

‘We have the child,’ he continued. ‘His safety depends on your behaviour.
Mr
Hussan can’t help you now. You are in our hands. You must be obedient and quiet, otherwise the child will end up the same way as the dog.’

‘What dog?’ She asked, a sinking feeling taking hold of her. She had heard the man’s voice somewhere before.

‘Look in the package on the right-hand corner of the seat’.

Abruptly interior lights went on. She looked around. God!. It felt as though she were imprisoned in a black cell. The car sped forward and she could see nothing through the opaque black glass.

On the seat there was a brown paper bag. She touched it. It was damp. She reached inside, looked, felt, and screamed.

The package contained Limbo’s head.

*    *    *

Marge Lincoln Jefferson stuffed another chocolate in her mouth. She was fed up. Ever since she had told Herbert about Louella wanting the money, she had been cast out by both of them.

Louella fobbed her off with excuses when she tried to see her. She found it impossible to get beyond the front door.

‘What about the circle of friends?’ Marge whined. ‘When will the next evening be?’

‘I can’t say,’ Louella had muttered hurriedly, and slammed the door in her face.

Herbert was no better. He had always been a difficult man to please, but now she could do nothing right, and he snapped and snarled at her the whole time.

She was reduced once more to just the television for company, and they were threatening to take that away, because Herbert had not made the last payment.

Marge sat and brooded. She knew they were up to something, for that morning Herbert had been surprisingly cheerful, and when he went out he had produced a large box of chocolates which he gave her. She had been amazed beyond words.

She had noticed activity at her neighbours’ – Louella and her husband carrying packages and suitcases out to their station-wagon all day, loading up as if they were going on a trip.

Marge popped another chocolate in her mouth, and went to the window again. She had a good view of what was happening. If there was going to be another circle-of-friends evening, she planned to be in on it.

*    *    *

‘Listen carefully,’ Herbert said. They were nearing their destination and it was time to give instructions.

Sunday huddled on the back seat as far away from the grisly package as she could get. The fact that she could not see the owner of the flat grey voice seemed to make matters worse. She was frightened, but determined to try to remain as calm as possible.

‘Who are you?’ she asked again. ‘What do you want?’

‘Just listen,’ Herbert insisted gruffly. ‘If you listen and do as you are told, everything will be all right. If you
don’t
do as I tell you, the boy will die like the dog.’

‘How much do you want? I have money, I can get more. How much?’

He paused. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could get money from her. The thought was appealing, but it was even more appealing to go ahead with his original plan.

‘Money can’t help the boy. We are going to a house. At this house you will do as you are told. You will not speak to anyone but me.
One
word in the wrong place and the child will die. At a signal from me there are people who will act, so don’t try and get away with anything. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand.’ She desperately tried to remember where she had heard his voice before. ‘And what am I supposed to do?’

‘Nothing that you haven’t done before and enjoyed. You should have waited for me. If you had waited for me I wouldn’t make you do this.’

‘Waited for you? Do I
know
you?’

‘Oh yes, you know me.’

It was like a continuation of the bad dream in Palm Springs. She felt sick and trapped. This must be Claude Hussan’s doing, although how could he involve Jean-Pierre? And who was the madman driving the car? She knew his voice . . . who was he?

*    *    *

Charlie was getting bored. Following Sunday had been a rid iculous, childish thing to do. He was not even positive it was she in the car; he had only caught a glimpse. And where the hell were they going? Away from Beverly Hills and down into dreary little streets with rows and rows of shabby houses.

Twice he decided to stop and twice he changed his mind, because having come so far he might as well see where she was going. Of course he wouldn’t let her see him; it would be too embarrassing to let her know he had followed her.

It occurred to him that he must fancy her. No, it was stronger than that. There was something about her . . . just something about her.

*    *    *

Esmé Mae peered once more at Jean-Pierre. He was fast asleep in bed, his long black lashes curling over innocent cheeks. Where was that little bit of a dog? She had looked for it everywhere. Its dinner was waiting, and Miss Simmons had said to be sure that the dog came in for its dinner.

Well, it must have run off up the beach somewhere, for Esmé Mae had shouted herself hoarse.

She pulled the covers up over Jean-Pierre and waddled into the kitchen for a good hot cup of coffee.

The car stopped.

The voice warned, ‘Now just remember everything I’ve said. If you do as you’re told, you’ll be getting back in this car in a couple of hours. We’ll collect the boy and I’ll take you both home. If you
don’t
co-operate – well, you know what to expect. The boy’s life is in your hands.’

She waited silently for the voice to present himself. There was no point in trying to scream or run. If he had Jean-Pierre, she would just have to do as he said.

The door opened and she saw they were in a quiet street. Herbert’s eyes avoided hers as he took her by the arm and helped her out of the car. She was almost sure she had never seen him before.