attending the Icon show tonight and my bookie tells me he’s odds-on to win, so it appears we’re back in business. Now, let’s see what you’ve got that’s gonna cause Elliot all this major grief you’re hopin’ for.”
Hoop opens the tool chest—just the lid, the drawers he leaves closed—and selects a flathead screwdriver with a broad blade to serve as a pry bar. He’s holding it by the blade when Grant interferes.
“What the fuck? What’s with the tools? And the paint can? When you brought that in I figured you had a job in the neighborhood or somethin’. Are you sayin’ that this evidence you told me about on the phone—this evidence you say’ll make Elliot look like a monster—is somethin’ that has to be carried around in a fuckin’ paint can? Do I really wanna know what this is?”
Grant backs off a ways. Hoop frowns his serious intent and explains what’s inside before he starts prying open the tabs on the lid of the bucket. Grant doesn’t react the way most people would to this news; he doesn’t get all horrified or roll his eyes or throw a hand across his mouth like he’s getting ready to puke. Instead, he laughs. He laughs a laugh without any fun in it that sounds for all the world like the laughs Hoop used to hear when he had to ride a girl’s bike or else depend on shank’s mare.
“Sonuvabitch! This is better than double-jointed cheerleaders from Mars or six-titted two-headed pygmies from the back alleys of Bangkok. And I suppose you’ve got Elvis waitin’ in the car.” Grant bends almost double with his mockery. Then he straightens up and holds his arms out wide like he’s reading from a regulation newspaper. “ Severed Head of Rock Star’s Rebel Wife Delivers Damaging Message from Beyond ,” he blares in a breathy voice. Then, in a more normal voice, he says how he ought to have his own head examined for messing around with the certifiable lunatic fringe.
Hoop quick tamps down the two tabs he just pried open. He uses the thick handle of the screwdriver and makes sure the paint can is sealed tight before he tamps Cliff Grant right between the eyes and jumps aside so as not to be hit by his falling body.
While he finishes up with Grant, he can’t help be disappointed he never got the chance to point out the petechiae on Audrey’s neck, even though he doesn’t know how to pronounce the word for the little pinprick hemorrhages that result from applied pressure—like from a stranglehold, according to the forensics book he looked at in the backroom of the Bimmerman mortuary when he stole the embalming fluid. And he’s a little sorry the question never got asked about why the evidence was never taken to the cops. There are several answers, but the simplest one, the one he would have used today, has to do with any jackassed-fool knowing journalists don’t have to reveal their sources.
An hour or so later, when everything’s been made right that can be, Hoop sets out from Venice Beach in search of the Royal Poinciana Hotel.
EIGHT
Early afternoon, March 30, 1987
Bemus’s arrangements went without a hitch. They arrived LA in record time—almost before they left Denver, as predicted—and the adjoining rooms they were shown to following an expedited VIP checkin at the Royal Poinciana met with Colin’s approval. He didn’t insist on separate suites for such a short stay, not on Icon night when even Nate’s considerable influence wouldn’t have bought better.
Settled in as he’s going to get, the priority now is to ring home. At eight p.m. GMT, he’s too late to say a proper goodnight to Simon, but Anthony will still be stirring. Colin places the call from a bedside phone, explains where he is without saying why, and promises to provide details next time he phones. After ringing off his eyes remain on the photo wallet propped open beside the telephone. No unbearable amount of guilt sweeps over him, so he dials a local number.
Getting outfitted for the award show is
Hoop opens the tool chest—just the lid, the drawers he leaves closed—and selects a flathead screwdriver with a broad blade to serve as a pry bar. He’s holding it by the blade when Grant interferes.
“What the fuck? What’s with the tools? And the paint can? When you brought that in I figured you had a job in the neighborhood or somethin’. Are you sayin’ that this evidence you told me about on the phone—this evidence you say’ll make Elliot look like a monster—is somethin’ that has to be carried around in a fuckin’ paint can? Do I really wanna know what this is?”
Grant backs off a ways. Hoop frowns his serious intent and explains what’s inside before he starts prying open the tabs on the lid of the bucket. Grant doesn’t react the way most people would to this news; he doesn’t get all horrified or roll his eyes or throw a hand across his mouth like he’s getting ready to puke. Instead, he laughs. He laughs a laugh without any fun in it that sounds for all the world like the laughs Hoop used to hear when he had to ride a girl’s bike or else depend on shank’s mare.
“Sonuvabitch! This is better than double-jointed cheerleaders from Mars or six-titted two-headed pygmies from the back alleys of Bangkok. And I suppose you’ve got Elvis waitin’ in the car.” Grant bends almost double with his mockery. Then he straightens up and holds his arms out wide like he’s reading from a regulation newspaper. “ Severed Head of Rock Star’s Rebel Wife Delivers Damaging Message from Beyond ,” he blares in a breathy voice. Then, in a more normal voice, he says how he ought to have his own head examined for messing around with the certifiable lunatic fringe.
Hoop quick tamps down the two tabs he just pried open. He uses the thick handle of the screwdriver and makes sure the paint can is sealed tight before he tamps Cliff Grant right between the eyes and jumps aside so as not to be hit by his falling body.
While he finishes up with Grant, he can’t help be disappointed he never got the chance to point out the petechiae on Audrey’s neck, even though he doesn’t know how to pronounce the word for the little pinprick hemorrhages that result from applied pressure—like from a stranglehold, according to the forensics book he looked at in the backroom of the Bimmerman mortuary when he stole the embalming fluid. And he’s a little sorry the question never got asked about why the evidence was never taken to the cops. There are several answers, but the simplest one, the one he would have used today, has to do with any jackassed-fool knowing journalists don’t have to reveal their sources.
An hour or so later, when everything’s been made right that can be, Hoop sets out from Venice Beach in search of the Royal Poinciana Hotel.
EIGHT
Early afternoon, March 30, 1987
Bemus’s arrangements went without a hitch. They arrived LA in record time—almost before they left Denver, as predicted—and the adjoining rooms they were shown to following an expedited VIP checkin at the Royal Poinciana met with Colin’s approval. He didn’t insist on separate suites for such a short stay, not on Icon night when even Nate’s considerable influence wouldn’t have bought better.
Settled in as he’s going to get, the priority now is to ring home. At eight p.m. GMT, he’s too late to say a proper goodnight to Simon, but Anthony will still be stirring. Colin places the call from a bedside phone, explains where he is without saying why, and promises to provide details next time he phones. After ringing off his eyes remain on the photo wallet propped open beside the telephone. No unbearable amount of guilt sweeps over him, so he dials a local number.
Getting outfitted for the award show is
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