The Tell-Tale Con (17 page)

The dude behind us waved his hand in a half-hearted greeting.  He looked exactly like a jockey, complete with a weird, white baseball cap that looked suspiciously jockey like.  I stared at him and then at Harrison.  “Well, that's such a relief.”

Either he didn't catch my sarcasm, or he didn't care.  “These headphones will help us hear each other.  These little planes can get loud.  But no dirty talk because Spencer can hear too.”

“Harrison…”  I didn't want to call into question his manliness or whatever, but really.  “Are you sure you should be flying this?”

“I can fly.”

The jockey frowned at me before taking the copilot seat.  “Harrison is a very good pilot.”

Well, of course he was.  Why wouldn't he be?  I strapped myself into the nearest seat and slumped over.  It was so annoying.  There was a moment while we were taxiing the runway and taking off that I was in mortal fear of my life, but in the end the jockey was right.  Harrison appeared to be a good pilot. 

When we were airborne and headed Nevada's way, Harrison's voice carried over the headset.  “I told you I could fly.”

“Well, of course you can.  Why the hell not?  Is there anything you can't do?”  I wasn't sure why his perfection at everything was so irritating.  But it most certainly was.

There was a long silence.  “There's lots of things I can't do,” he said at last.  He spoke so quietly I wondered if I'd hurt his feelings.  I knew Spencer the Jockey was listening, but I couldn't help blurting out a challenge.

“Name one.”

Again I thought he might not respond, and by this point I was relatively certain I was just being a jerk and his feelings were definitely hurt.  But I was so irritated that he could produce license plate owners and video files and fly private planes and win international chess matches. 

“I have no artistic talent at all.  I'm hard-pressed to draw a recognizable stick figure.” 

“Well, most people are bad artists,” I grumbled. 

But what did it matter?  It was me being an idiot.  It had nothing to do with him. 

“I can't ski, nor can I water ski, though I've tried both more than once.  I can't swim.  I've never been good at a sport in my entire life.  I failed P.E. in the seventh grade.  I can't fix anything.  Not even a computer, which any self-respecting geek can do.  I can't hang glide or sail, and I was eleven before I learned to tie my shoes.  I can't tell the difference between red and green.  I can't drive a standard or a big car without running into something.” 

I was starting to feel bad, and I wanted to ask him to stop, but he was on a roll.  “I can't read a piece of famed classic literature without wondering if it might be more fun to stab myself in the eyeball with a pencil.  I'm not particularly good at video games though they look like they'd be fun.  I've never been to camp without begging to come home before the first week is out.  I was kicked out of peewee soccer.  I can't speak a foreign language.  Not even Hindi, which horrifies my mother and makes her feel utterly disgraced among the family.” 

“I could go on,” he offered.

“I only asked for one thing,” I whispered, though I wasn't sure if he could hear me. 

“Well, consider it part of my need to overachieve, even when disparaging myself.”  I couldn't tell if he was mad or not.  His tone was flat.  I decided not to push it any farther.  I hadn't wanted that conversation to end this way, but in another way it had been very illuminating to hear all that.  Harrison was still a mystery, but at least one aspect was not.  He was
very
sensitive about the things he couldn't do. 

It was a shame too.  If I felt bad for all the stuff I was useless at, I'd never leave my room.  Most people were able to accept at a young age that there were plenty of things they'd never be good at.  Clearly, Harrison was not one of those people.  Was it Van who was behind this?  Or maybe Harrison's mother?  Maybe it was just Harrison himself.  He did give off the perfectionist vibe. 

Either way, after that I kept my trap shut for the short trip to Las Vegas, Nevada.  It took only about an hour until we were circling a private airport, asking for permission to land.  With very little coaching from Jockey, Trainer of Pilots, Harrison coasted in for a stop. 

I took off the headphones and the seatbelt.  As we were leaving the plane, I touched Harrison's arm.  I wasn't good at apologizing.  But I didn't mind telling the truth.  “I was out of line before.  And you are a good pilot.”

He smiled slightly, but he didn't respond, which made me feel worse.  We stepped out on to the tarmac, and outside the weather was dry and hot.  It brought home the truth that we'd flown, without permission, preparation or planning, to Las Vegas.  Such a bizarre life I'd stepped into since I'd started hanging out with Harrison, and my life had been pretty bizarre before. 

“Gregory Simpson works on the strip.  I hired a driver.  Would you believe you can't rent a car at our age?  No matter how much money you throw at it, you have to be eighteen.  Go figure.”

Go figure
.  I would have been taking the bus.  Actually, I wouldn't have been here at all, because real people didn't have their own planes.  The driver Harrison hired was waiting for us at the curb.  I was, frankly, expecting it to be a limousine.  But it was a black, shiny sedan, understated and boring. 

Inside, the car was dark, cool and silent.  I could hear Harrison and the driver breathing.  It was kind of freaky.  The driver didn't ask us where we were going.  He didn't do anything.  He sat idly in the driver's seat until Harrison directed him to a place called the Bellimah. 

The driver asked if Harrison was certain that was where he wanted to go and it was clarified that, in fact, we did want to go there.  He didn't come out and say it, but the doubt and hesitation in the driver's voice suggested that the kind of people who hired cars were not usually the kind of people who went to the Bellimah.  Which was a good indication of the sort of place we were headed. 

“Okay, who is this person again?” 

Harrison was scrolling through his iPhone while he spoke, looking for I didn't know what.  It certainly wasn't the man's name, because he'd already told me what that was.  Though I couldn't remember it. 

“Back in the early 90's Gregory Simpson was moving up in the acting world.  He was the heartthrob
de jour
at the time.  I doubt anyone remembers him now.  Anyone our age, anyway.”

“I think I saw a movie with him in it once.  He was in high school.  The cool guy who bets he can turn the local tomboy into a beauty pageant winner for five hundred bucks or something like that.”

“Yeah, that's him.”

“Okay, so why did he make the short list?”

“He couldn't focus.  He was always looking for something else.  More stimulation.  He was a druggie, but who isn't in Hollywood?  Anyway, he kept ditching Dad's movies to do other work.  Dad had him in like three movies because he was so hot at the time, not because he was good at his job.  But then Dad lost his patience and dropped him in the middle of a film.  Hired a nobody who's a huge name now.”

That didn't sound like a mortal sin, and it didn't sound like Greg Simpson's descent into working at a cheap hotel on the Vegas strip could be blamed on Van Poe.  Maybe Harrison hadn't understood the assignment.  “I still don't get why we're here.”

Harrison made one last swipe on the phone with his finger and slid it into the pocket of his jacket.  “Because of what happened next.”

I waited impatiently while he tied his shoe.  He indicated to his laces.  “Did you know this little piece of plastic here on the end is called an aglet?”

“No.  Nor do I know why I would ever, ever care.”

Harrison laughed.  “You never know.  You may be on a game show someday, and that will be a question, and then you'll thank me.  You wait and see.”

“I can't wait for the moment.”

Harrison snickered again.  “Okay, well, after the third movie had to restart filming, Dad was so pissed he blacklisted the guy.  And then he went all over Hollywood insisting, or at the very least heavily suggesting, that no one ever give the guy another job again.”

“Ah.  I guess it worked?”

“Oh, yeah.  It worked.  In a year he was doing toothpaste commercials.  By a year after that he'd disappeared from sight completely.  Most of the time producers get annoyed with a big name, and they just don't work with them again.  But Dad wouldn't let it go.  In fact, he was proud of it.  That's how I know.  He tells the story still.”

“Okay, yeah, Greg Simpson might have reason to be a little pissed.  So what does he do now?”

Harrison grinned.  “That, I'll let you wait and see.”

It didn't take us that long to reach the Bellimah.  The hotel was definitely on the seedy side of town.  Built somewhere in the 1960's, it was a short, squat building with shiny gold accents and mirrors at every turn.  The blinking sign out front announced that it, shockingly, had vacancies and that there were slot machines in the lobby. 

Another smaller sign let me know it had, “showgirls, showgirls, showgirls” as well as a magician and an Elvis impersonator.  Because all good hotels needed those.  Inside the lobby, the Bellimah was at least consistent: old, stale smelling and dark.  There was central air, but it was weak and almost warm coming in from the vents above us.  The ceiling and walls were covered in mirrors.  I could see myself from every angle.  Which, turns out, was not something I appreciated. 

Though I was relatively certain he'd never been here before, Harrison didn't hesitate.  He headed right for the theater.  So I followed behind, frankly kind of afraid to be left behind in this lobby.  There were only, like, three people in the lobby, but they weren't people I was interested in being alone with. 

There wasn't anything going on in the theater.  Well, nothing show-worthy anyway.  There was a custodian listlessly sweeping, and a couple of showgirls wearing their elaborate headdresses and tattered robes.  I grabbed Harrison's arm.  “Remember, no telling him who you are.”

“What should we tell him instead?”

I shrugged.  “I don't know.  But I'll think of something.”

He nodded.  “You are the master.” 

Was that a compliment or an insult?  I spent so long thinking about it, I had to run to catch up with Harrison.  Backstage in the theater was worse than out in front.  But, blessedly, there were no mirrors here, so that was something.  Even if there had been, it was so dark that I wouldn't have been able to see myself anyway.  I kicked something large and hard, and, cursing, I stumbled behind Harrison.  Finally, we spilled out into an ill-lit hallway, lined with peeling corkboard walls and dingy, industrial gray tile that was possibly supposed to be white. 

“Is Grego a magician, or has he gone through some serious changes over the years, and now he's one of those pretty little show girls?”

Harrison grinned at me.  “Nope.” 

He knocked hard on a dressing room door marked with a paper star reading Gregory Simpson.  There was only one option left, but it was still kind of a shock when Gregory came to the door.  He was in his mid-forties, with graying brown hair and a heavily lined face.  From the waist up he was half naked and wearing a pair of ridiculous rhinestone sunglasses.  From the waist down he was wearing white bell bottoms with bling down the sides. 

Half man, half Elvis, Gregory Simpson was reading a tattered copy of
On the Road
and smoking pot in the building without the slightest concern that we might call the police or something.  He bore next to no resemblance to the guy I remembered from the high school bet movie.  He lowered the book. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Kitty Carson, and this is AJ Sweetwater.  We're from the MFA program at UCLA, and we're writing a book based on our senior thesis.  All about the swath of destruction laid by high-powered and sadistic producer, Van Poe.”  I held up my hand like I was writing a dramatic headline across the air. 

I made a point of not looking at my pal, AJ, because I had no idea what he'd think of my words.  Harrison had the odd effect on me of making me not want to hurt his feelings.  What the hell was that about?

Greg Simpson sighed.  “Alright, fine.  You better come in.  But I don't think you're in the right place.”

I wasn't certain what he meant by that, but I followed him inside anyway.  Harrison stayed in the doorway.  If I'd expected more of the same Bellimah hospitality in here, I was very much surprised.  The walls were lined with crisp, cedar-scented wood, the smell almost overpowering the sharp tang of cloves and the sweetness of marijuana.  He'd decorated the entire room in simple cedar furniture that looked handmade and of decent quality. 

The walls were lined with bookcases, each filled to the brim with well-worn books, most as tattered as the one he was holding.  There was a small kitchenette, simple but cleanly designed, and a bedroom in the back.  The door was open so I could see his low profile platform bed, neatly made, and large windows facing outside the hotel, the curtains drawn back to allow in the light.

I saw no televisions, radios or computers, though that didn't mean he didn't have any.  What I did see were still more books in the bedroom.  He indicated to the furniture.  “Aikido-style.  I made it myself.  No nails or screws.” 

I wasn't sure I trusted it, but it did no good to alienate the mark, so I sat.  Harrison stayed where he was, blocking the door. 

I pulled the handy notebook from my purse that I carried around for reasons just like this.  Then I jotted down the names I'd given myself and Harrison in case I forgot.  Which was a sad possibility.  Greg shot me a level gaze.