Body Copy (17 page)

Michael Craven

with a crazy story who Roger had given a bunch of money to. You know?”

“You figured it was between you and Roger, and since no one else but Roger knew the real truth, it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Like I said, I didn’t know who he had told or whatever. I just figured he paid me to say one thing, so, once he was dead, I just stuck with the original plan. I figured that would keep me out of it. Keep me from looking suspicious. Just admit to the affair. People have affairs all the time. That way it wouldn’t look like I was involved in some other thing. Because I wasn’t. Truth is, I didn’t know Roger Gale from Adam. Plus, the five thousand he’d given me was long gone.”

Tremaine looked at Wendy, her big, wide, honest face.

The blonde hair and the blue eyes. Charmed by Roger Gale, she probably would have had a real affair with him.

Then, out of nowhere, she was stuck in a situation she didn’t know how to handle. So she just stuck with what would ruffle the least feathers.

Tremaine said, “Roger Gale never made a move on you?”

“Never.”

Tremaine stood up and said, “Thank you, Wendy.”

She stayed seated, looking up toward Tremaine. Her face began to redden a bit and her eyes filled up with the beginnings of tears. “Roger Gale seemed like a really nice guy. I was just trying to help him.” Then she said, “How did you know our affair was made up?”

Tremaine thought about her question. Was it that her answers just seemed so thought out?
We had six dates and
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on the sixth we ended it.
Was it that she and Roger Gale just didn’t seem to go together?

Tremaine answered her question. “I didn’t.”

Wendy looked at him, desperate almost, and said, “Am I going to get into trouble?” like a little kid.

“No, Wendy, you’re not.”

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It was noon. Tremaine was back at the trailer park, but not at his place—in front of Marvin’s. It was time for Marvin to perform. The trailer door opened and Marvin Kearns came out, his bald head freshly shaved and glistening in the mid-morning sun. He was wearing black slacks with thick gray stripes running down the legs. The shoes, black and shiny. Up top, he wore a ribbed black tank top and a brown leather blazer. His eyes were covered by silver aviator-style sunglasses. His stocky build filled out the clothes nicely.

He stood outside the car for a moment, almost posing, then got in.

Tremaine said, “You look perfect.”

“I know,” Marvin Kearns responded.

B O D Y C O P Y

Tremaine dropped Marvin Kearns off in front of Paul Spinelli’s office building, then headed over to Think Big Advertising, pulled into the lot, and got out his cell phone and began dialing.

Tremaine heard Drop-Dead Heather say, “Tyler Wilkes’s office.”

“Heather, this is Donald Tremaine.”

“Donald, hi. I was just thinking about you the other night.”

Tremaine thought about the parking lot that day and the way Heather looked when she struck her surfer pose.

Tremaine stayed on point.

Tremaine said, “I wonder if you could pass on a message to Tyler for me.”

“We were going to have a drink. You never called.”

She was right, he had never called. He thought, losing focus for just a second, how could you forget to call this one? Get your shit together, Tremaine.

He said, “I didn’t call, but I will.”

“Good. Do you want me to put you on with Tyler? He’s just sitting in his office.”

“That’s okay. Just tell him something for me.”

“Okay.”

“Tell him I’m out in the parking lot, and I want to talk to him for a minute.”

Tremaine sat in his car watching the goings-on in the Think Big parking lot. That same look of employee, young, decked out in ironic clothing. He saw a guy, looked to be about thirty-five, wearing a
Dukes of Hazzard
T-shirt. He saw some Fonzie memorabilia hanging from the rearview of an Audi A4. One woman sported the Catholic high 169

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school girl look—pigtails and a plaid skirt. Tremaine could have used another second or two of her before she disappeared inside the building . . .

Then Tremaine saw Tyler Wilkes come out of the Think Big entrance. Some of his employees waved to him—he’s the boss—but Tyler, Tremaine could tell by his body language, was nervous and in no mood for small talk. Tyler was looking around for Tremaine. Tremaine stuck his hand out the window of the Cutlass. Tyler spotted him and rushed over.

Tyler got to Tremaine’s car, and Tremaine smiled and said,

“Good afternoon, Tyler,” through his opened window.

“What’s this about?” Tyler said. He was frantic, even angry.

“This is about you, Tyler. Specifically, this is about your relationship with a man named Paul Spinelli. Do you know him?”

Tyler Wilkes looked at Tremaine and said, “Yes, I do.

I’m in business with him. He has a cement company.”

“Yes, he does.” Tremaine said. And then continued,

“Can I borrow an hour of your time?”

“Right now?” Tyler Wilkes said. The movements his face made suggested that right now wasn’t an option.

“Yes, right now.”

“I’m busy, Tremaine.”

“Did the private eye, the one you hired to tail me, give you my message?”

Tyler didn’t say anything. He just looked at Tremaine, worried.

Tremaine said, “I suggest you get in my car right now.

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See, Paul Spinelli doesn’t trust you anymore. He thinks you’re the kind of guy who might get him into trouble.

Who might
want
to get him into trouble. And when he thinks someone is out to get him in trouble, he gets angry.

Very angry.”

“Paul Spinelli does not think I’m out to get him in trouble. He’s a cement man and I gave him some money.”

“Get in the car, Tyler, and I’ll prove it.”

Tremaine and Tyler Wilkes drove down Lincoln Boulevard, then right on Washington toward Culver City.

“There are some smokes in the glove if you want one,”

Tremaine said.

Tyler Wilkes didn’t go for one. Or respond.

“Well, if you’re not going to have one, will you hand me one?”

Tyler Wilkes did as he was asked. Tremaine lit up.

Tremaine pulled down Chapin Street in Culver City, the street Paul Spinelli’s office building was on. Tyler looked nervous. Tremaine thinking, the closer we get to the L.A.

Stone offices, the closer my accusations are to becoming real to Tyler.

Tremaine and Tyler Wilkes sat in the parked Cutlass, sat right where Tremaine had sat those two days he’d come to watch Spinelli go to lunch.

Tremaine said, “I want you to watch something.”

At one, Spinelli exited the building, his two lunch buddies in tow. Tremaine and Tyler, sitting in the Cutlass, watched Marvin Kearns, dressed like a tough guy, a mob 171

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guy, walk toward Spinelli and the two men. Tremaine and Tyler then watched Marvin reach the men and, with a big smile, shake hands with them. Marvin was introducing himself, but Tyler didn’t know that.

Tremaine said, “That man, the bald one with the leather jacket, is one of Paul Spinelli’s right-hand men.”

“All right,” Tyler Wilkes said.

Tremaine and Tyler watched Marvin hand Spinelli an envelope. In it was a gift certificate to a nearby restaurant, Herman’s. Marvin was telling Spinelli that he worked for Herman, and that Herman wanted to reach out to a successful local businessman with a gift certificate to his restaurant. And that he’d be honored if Spinelli, a man of great stature, would accept the gift certificate and come by for an expensive dinner any time. Free of charge. Spinelli took the envelope, smiled wide, and put it in the inside pocket of his blazer.

In the Cutlass, Tremaine said to Wilkes, “That envelope he handed Spinelli? That was a report on you.”

“On me? What do you mean, on me?” Wilkes said.

Tremaine pulled the Cutlass out of the spot and guided the car right, around the corner. Paul Spinelli’s building was now out of sight.

Tremaine said, “You know how you couldn’t tell what I was looking for when I first came in to your office?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Tremaine said as he steered the Cutlass down a long alley behind a warehouse, then right again to an area of Dumpsters closed in by high cement walls on three sides,

“I work for Paul Spinelli. We were looking into you.”

Just after Tremaine said this, Marvin Kearns appeared 172

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from behind one of the cement walls. Tremaine and Tyler looked at him, stocky, bald, leather blazer over a tank top, mean-ass expression on his face.

Tremaine looked over and down. Tyler’s hand was visibly shaking.

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The three of them, Tyler, Marvin, and Tremaine, were now standing in the area with the Dumpsters and the three cement walls. Marvin Kearns stood stone-silent with a stern look on his face, those big shades adding to the mystery. Tremaine began talking to Tyler Wilkes.

Tremaine said, “You’re in trouble. Like I said, this man here is what you might call a very close associate to Paul Spinelli. Paul Spinelli thinks you’re going to get him in trouble. That you’re suspicious of him.”

Tyler Wilkes’s eyes were open wide now, sweat was forming on his forehead. Marvin moved closer to Tyler, just a little closer.

Tyler said, “What is this? I have no idea what Paul Spinelli is up to. All I did was invest in his company.”

B O D Y C O P Y

“Paul Spinelli hired me to look into you because he thought you were the type of person that might assume things that weren’t true. Example: After I came and talked to you, you hired someone to follow me. You know why you hired someone to follow me?”

Tyler Wilkes couldn’t speak. He tried, but nothing came out. So he just shook his head, no.

Tremaine said, “You did that because you think Paul Spinelli is up to something, don’t you? Instead of being confident that you’ve made a sound investment in his company, you thought you had a reason to be suspicious. So I played right into your hands. As soon as you found out I took pictures of the cement trucks, you thought, I knew it!

Spinelli’s a bad guy. And Paul Spinelli can’t live with that.”

Tyler, stuttering, said, “I hired the P.I. so I could tell Spinelli about you.”

Tremaine said, “I don’t think so. And neither does Spinelli. You wouldn’t have hired a P.I. if you didn’t think Spinelli was up to something. And, like I said, Spinelli can’t live with that.”

After Tremaine said this, Marvin Kearns moved his blazer to the side and pulled out a gun. A black Browning Hi-Power 9mm. It wasn’t loaded. But Tyler Wilkes didn’t know this, would never know this.

At the sight of the gun, Tyler Wilkes gasped. He was breathing very hard. Marvin Kearns didn’t point the gun at Tyler, but he moved even closer now and said quietly but with force, Marvin’s first line in this performance, “What do you know about Paul Spinelli?”

Tyler could barely get his words out. A stain appeared on the front of his pants. The poor guy had wet himself.

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“I don’t know anything. I swear. I don’t suspect him of anything. I never have, and I never will say a word to anyone about anything he does.”

Marvin Kearns took another step closer to Tyler. Tyler fell to his knees and clutched his chest. Marvin pursed his lips. Despite the calm Marvin betrayed, you could feel the rage beneath his skin. A really good performance, Tremaine was thinking.

“Now is not the time to lie, Mr. Wilkes,” Marvin said.

Mr. Wilkes. Marvin threw that one in on his own.

“I swear I don’t know anything. I swear. Please . . .

Please . . . Don’t kill me,” Tyler begged.

Tremaine and Marvin both knew now for sure that Tyler Wilkes was thoroughly convinced that this was a serious situation. The man thought he was going to get killed.

Next came the pivotal question.

Marvin said, “What do you know about the murder of Roger Gale?”

Tremaine tensed imperceptibly. Would Wilkes be able to put two and two together and discover that this had absolutely nothing to do with Paul Spinelli? That they were using his relationship to the Shark to get information on Roger Gale? That Tremaine kept Tyler thinking it
might
be about Roger Gale so Tyler wouldn’t talk to Spinelli before he had a chance to put his plan into action? No way, the guy was on the ground, soaked in urine, begging for his life.

Tyler, on the ground, desperation ravaging his face, said, “Nothing. Nothing about Roger Gale. He was a rival in business. I had nothing to do with his murder. Oh, God.

I’m seeing black spots.”

Good, Tremaine thought.

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Marvin clutched the gun, so Tyler would see him, and said, “I will repeat the question once. What do you know about the murder of Roger Gale?”

Tears welled up in Tyler’s eyes. He struggled to breathe and said, “I don’t know anything about the murder. I don’t.”

Tyler turned to Tremaine. “Please, tell him not to kill me. I don’t know how or why Roger Gale was killed.”

Tyler was on all fours, sweating, stammering, slobber-ing.

Tremaine said, “What do you know about Roger Gale?

Anything. What do you know that I don’t know?”

Tyler looked up at Tremaine. He had an almost puppy-dog expression in his eyes, on all fours like he was, next to some Dumpsters and bleak, gray cement walls. Thinking, for sure, what a terrible place to die.

“I used to follow him around,” Tyler said.

With a motion of the hand, Tremaine gestured to Marvin to back off. Marvin backed up and put the gun away.

Tremaine looked at Tyler on the ground, looked right into Tyler’s eyes, and said, “Follow him? What do you mean?”

“I got a little obsessed with the guy, all right? A lot obsessed, really. When you work in my business, certain people start to get worshipped, he was one of them.

I started to idolize him, think about him all the time. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And then, I wanted to know what he did and where he was all the time.”