Hollywood Sinners

PART THREE



Spring





50

New York



The man scraped the bottom of the saucepan with a knife. Brown shavings of scrambled egg peeled off the metal, curly like woodchips. Shit, he’d burned breakfast.

‘Nelson, honey, can you fix me some more coffee?’

The woman at the table looked older in the cold light of day. She was overweight with loose, pasty skin and a nest of black hair, stiff as wire. With his back to her at the stove, the man tensed, but responded to his alias all the same and refilled her cup. He’d been living under the name Nelson Price for ten years now. Ten long, long years. But the wait would soon be over.

‘Thanks, baby,’ the woman said in a whiny voice. She picked up the remote and started flicking channels on the TV. ‘Where’s breakfast?’

‘I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ the man snapped, thinking she could benefit from missing a meal or two. He couldn’t even remember where he’d picked this dyke up–she’d probably come into Club 44 and taken advantage of him when he was drunk.

At thirty-six, clad in his morning attire of stained beige jockeys, he was an alarmingly unattractive man. Years of drink had left him looking closer to sixty than forty, with ravaged skin stretched over pointed, rat-like features. His eyes were squinty, hard and pitiless. His thin brown hair clung stubbornly to the very back of his head, refusing to abandon him completely and concealing a deep, jagged scar that ran from one ear to the other. The front was completely bald and shiny as a wiped-down surface. Lean and crooked in frame, his sharp bones pushed at the skin so that when he was naked it was possible to count the knots of his spine. His nose had grown longer over the years, curved now like a beak.

He dumped the scorched eggs on to two plates and brought them to the table, where the mounds quivered brain-like. The only bread in the apartment was covered in mould, so they’d have to make do. This one, whatever her name was, obviously didn’t give a crap as she shovelled the yellowy-brown stuff into her mouth, chewing loudly and slurping her coffee.

Something on the TV caught his attention. A name, that was all it was. But it was her name. The name he hated beyond all others. Two dirty words.

Lana Falcon.

‘Go back,’ he ordered calmly. The egg on his fork balanced uncertainly before dropping to the plate in miserable defeat.

The woman ignored him and continued flicking channels.

‘I said, go back.’ He wouldn’t ask again.

‘What, baby?’ she said, distracted, her mouth full of food.

Lester Fallon snatched the control and punched at the buttons. Seconds later they landed on a celebrity news channel.

And there she was. His sister. It seemed she had an alias, too.

Liar, murderer, bitch.

She was rich, she was famous; she lived the life of a f*cking princess like she hadn’t got a care in the world.

Like she hadn’t killed her own brother.

The injustice of it made him shake.

‘Nelson, honey, are you OK?’

Lester put down his cutlery. ‘I want you to leave.’ He could feel his rage boiling up inside, threatening to spill. He would warn her once more, but that would be the last time. The mere sight of his sister, the mention of her name unleashed the animal in him. He could not be held accountable for his actions if this lardy-ass broad got in the way.

‘What’s the matter, sugar-pie?’ she bleated. ‘Don’t you want me to suck that fine old dick of yours one more time?’

Under the table Lester wiped his palms on his hairy knees.

‘I said, leave.’

The woman took her time in clearing the last of her plate. ‘Fine.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. ‘You just give me what I’m owed and I’m outta here.’

Lester’s knuckles cracked beneath the surface. He hadn’t realised that was the deal.

‘I ain’t got no money,’ he snarled.

The woman made a face; she’d heard it all before. ‘That watch’ll do nicely,’ she said, her eyes darting to the cheap imitation Rolex attached to his wrist.

In a single swift movement, Lester’s hand shot up and slapped her across the face. She responded quickly, going for his head, digging her nails in and pulling at what hair there was, the table dragged between them so the plates and glasses went crashing to the floor. He punched her once, twice, sent her flying the same way. Slut! Why couldn’t these dumb women control themselves? It was her own fault, coming in here demanding money. She was privileged to spend a night with a man like him–if anything, he should be asking for the dough. He pounced on her, not giving her a chance to escape. Fuelled by hatred for his sister, he wrapped his long, skeletal fingers round the woman’s neck, pressing his thumbs hard into her clavicle. She gasped and choked, blood rushing to her face. Her eyes bugged, wild with fear.

A searing pain shot through Lester’s groin. In the struggle she had raised a knee and got him where it hurt. His mouth hung open and he made a wheezing, high-pitched sound, rolling backwards, curled up in a ball. She kicked him repeatedly in the back–the bitch had heels on–then hard in the head, once. He felt a trickle of blood run from his nose. Helpless, he watched as she unstrapped the watch, pocketed it, kicked him one more time in his gut then grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.

He lay there a while, nursing himself and groaning. The apartment was quiet and it smelled bad. The trash needed taking out, he hadn’t done it in a week, maybe longer, he couldn’t remember.

For eight years he had lived in New York City, waiting tables at various strip bars, the latest of which was Club 44. He’d arrived in town with enough bucks to get a deposit down on an apartment, dive as it was, on Greenwich Street, with a tiny bedroom, a bathroom whose toilet kept filling up with shit–there was a problem with his drains–and a kitchen coated in fat and grease. Everything was seventies in style, from the sludgy creams and browns of the decor to the fringed, mottled lamps, some of which worked, some of which didn’t.

He could hear the TV reporter chattering on. It was white noise to him–only the sound of his sister’s name could skewer the surface. She was living the life of a queen in Hollywood, a rich and successful film star; that dumb f*ck ex-boyfriend of hers a Vegas billionaire. Where the hell was his money? Where were the millions he was entitled to? They had taken everything from him, left him with nothing but the clothes on his back–but soon he would claim what was rightfully his. Two murderers about to pay the ultimate price.

At least they hadn’t stayed together–to cap it all with a sickly f*cking love story would have been the final insult. No, instead Laura had married the most famous actor of them all: Cole Steel. It defied belief.

They had escaped from one of the most heinous crimes imaginable and had gone on to live the life that he, Lester Fallon, deserved. Refuge, he decided as he lay on the floor, his ear pressed against the scratchy doormat, could be found only in what was to come. Life had been cruel, but little Laura’s and that Lewis kid’s success was only part of the grander scheme of things. The higher they got, the further there was to fall.

Lester closed his eyes, thinking he ought to try to get up. His head was banging from where that whore had attacked him.

Memories came flooding back. Memories of the night he died.

Lester Fallon had been a dead man for ten years now. Killed by a blow to the head then reduced to nothing, burned to ashes by a couple of kids.

Or at least that’s what they thought. Instead he had been resurrected, risen to seek vengeance upon those who’d tried to bring him down. The power he now wielded was infinite: it was what had kept him going all this time. They had no clue that he lived on, under another name but still the same man, only now he had hatred coursing through his veins like life-blood.

They were so stupid they hadn’t even thought to check he was dead. That kid had knocked him out cold, had probably pissed his pants when he thought he’d killed a man.

Lester had come round slowly that night, the weight of concussion confusing things. Swimming up into consciousness, he’d realised he was alone. Voices were talking in whispers, voices all around, telling him he had to move.

Instinct, from wherever it came, had compelled him to wrench open a back window and climb out the trailer. He had fallen in a slump on to the hard ground, where he had thrown up sour, rank-smelling beer. One hand was numb and there were tiny dots springing behind his eyes. He’d reached a hand round to touch the back of his head and felt that bloody pulp, the tip of his thumb disappearing into a pit of soft, wet matter. He’d retched again, but this time nothing came out. Ripping off his shirt, he had wrapped a torn sleeve around the wound, stemming the blood.

For a while he’d lain still, thinking about all the things he would do to her once he had the strength to move.

Faint voices, panicked, hushed, had reached his ears. It was difficult to tell what they were saying. Whether it was down to his addled mind or sheer intuition he did not know, but something told Lester to get to his feet; to run. Staggering up, he lurched into the night, the moon hovering above, pale and lonely in the open black sky. When he came to the road he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Sleep threatened to take him.

The explosion seemed to happen in his head, so painful it was, that when he looked round to see those bright orange flames dancing in the distance, he thought he was imagining it. It took another moment to connect with the fact that the raging fire was in the direction he’d just come from. His trailer was burning. His funeral pyre.

He had kept running, feet dragging on the road, not knowing where he was going. With each stumble he half expected the cops to pull him over–someone, anyone. They never came. Eventually, wandering blindly further and further, deeper into the night, delirious, he’d fallen down on the road and passed out. He had escaped death once. This time it could claim him.

Next he knew, his aching body was being dragged into the cab of a truck. It was light. His eyes were stinging and he had a taste in his mouth like shit, bitter and cloying. His lips were dry and cracked, his head throbbing.

The truck belonged to a long-distance driver named Big Carl. Big Carl wore a string vest and had arms like hams, mapped over with vein-green tattoos. There was a donkey in a sombrero swinging off the rear-view mirror. They drove for what felt like hours, passing the state border as night was creeping in. Lester drifted in and out of sleep, his tongue lolling fat in his mouth, thick as meat. At a gas station Big Carl produced a bottle of water, which Lester drank thirstily.

Big Carl lived in a beat-up house, down a dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He said he’d put Lester up in return for him looking after the place–Lester hadn’t raised a finger in that direction for years but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to object.

Lester passed a miserable two months like this, slave to the demands of his keeper. Something was changing in his head, like he was wired differently somehow. His memory was patchy, he kept falling over; he was forgetting things like his middle name and three times four. Hours passed where he could only stare at a wall, the rest of the world was too complicated, too plural. Weak and confused, he tried to make sense of what had happened that fateful night. It kept escaping him, like sand running through his fingers.

But over time, as his strength returned, Lester slowly put together the pieces. He worked out why no one was coming for him. They thought he was dead, everybody did. His sister would have told the cops that he’d set fire to the trailer himself. She was a good little liar.

Surely she would be discovered. Somebody had to know where he was … didn’t they?

He would go back to Belleville. Sort Laura out once and for all.

One morning in June, Lester made his escape–Big Carl was on a long-distance trip and Lester had no intention of ever seeing him again. He was free. Revenge was close.

But, walking the streets of a deadbeat town, feeling conspicuous as only a freed man can, Lester’s resolve began to waver. He caught his reflection in a shop window. He had gained weight. His hair was different; he seemed taller. There was a steeliness in his eyes that he admired. He felt stronger than he ever had.

Lester Fallon had defied death–there was nothing he could not do now.

That night he sheltered under a flattened cardboard box, kicking the rats that gnawed at his ankles. He slept fitfully in short, lucid bursts. Then, around dawn, a voice came to him. The voice was other-worldly, primal, and it spoke to his core. It seemed to come from within him and outside him at the same time, and told him simply this–that revenge would come some years from now, and the moment of that revenge would end the world as they knew it.

The end of the world as they knew it …

A new plan began to take shape. What was there to go back for? Belleville and the people in it were as dead to him as he was to them. He would wait for Laura, biding his time. The scene of his vengeance would be all the sweeter for it.

Over the next year, with no possessions or money, Lester decided to reinvent himself. He became Nelson Price, a name he’d seen on a reel of daytime movie credits, and hitched a ride to Bosfield, a town not far outside Indianapolis. There, drinking one night, he had hooked up with a local fraudster named Irvin Chance, owner of a ginger balding head and russet handlebar moustache, as well as a notorious strip joint on East Meridian. In return for waiting tables, Irvin gave him a bed in the house he shared with his wife, an overweight, unhappy-looking broad called Anna-May. The work was hard and unrewarding, but it was a roof over his head.

Things became complicated when Anna-May started spilling her guts, confiding that Irvin hadn’t paid her that kind of attention in months.

‘He used to say I had the sweetest ass in the whole of the state,’ she’d slur, shoving her fat hands into a bag of chips. ‘Now he won’t even look at me.’

At first Lester wished she’d shut the hell up, but as Anna-May’s drunken, rambling confessions took on a new light, things began to get interesting. It turned out that Anna-May was the only daughter, once young and beautiful, of a wealthy oil baron, but had been cast out of her family when they’d discovered her relationship with neighbourhood bad boy Irvin. In fact, Lester discovered, it was she who had financed Irvin’s bar, and she, despite her apparent indolence, who held complete control over their finances.

Lester saw his way in. Sex. Anna-May didn’t get it any more–he could give it to her. It was the perfect transaction. Soon it transpired that Anna-May had never had a man go down on her, and, though it made bile rise in Lester’s throat every time, he grit his teeth and got to it. In only a matter of weeks Irvin was phased out of the marriage–and, with special indulgences from Lester, out of the bar. Lester stepped up as owner, choked back disgust in bed every night with a sweating, insatiable Anna-May, and had soon saved enough to make it on his own.

Eighteen months later, Nelson Price–who, of course, despite Anna-May’s concentrated search efforts, did not exist–disappeared quietly into the night. Just in time, for Anna-May had started gabbing on about marriage, which was about as far away from his intentions as it was possible to get. Over the months his hunger for revenge had not waned–it was fiercer now than ever. He took as much cash and jewellery as he could and headed for New York. That was nearly eight years ago now.

Some time after, downing shots in a bar on West 14th Street, he had seen a face he recognised. She was in a low-budget TV drama about a woman who falls in love with her psychiatrist.

Laura.

A year later, his sister was starring in a sitcom you couldn’t walk down the street without seeing in a store window–one of the best-loved American shows of the last twenty years or some crap. Lester’s heart had turned to stone, hardened by the fist of his loathing. Was she still f*cking her murderer boyfriend? He didn’t think she was. It wasn’t until months later that he found out about Robert St Louis and his hotel empire.

They couldn’t run for ever from the fact of their crime: they had killed a man in cold blood and yet they just carried on like nothing had happened. Everybody did.

It was tempting to bring them down then and there.

America’s sweetheart, Laura was called. Ha. They wouldn’t be saying that if they knew she’d torched her own brother to death. But the voice he’d heard that night he’d left Big Carl’s was revealing its intent. Of course. They now had millions in the bank, more money than Lester could ever imagine–and he was entitled to every last dime. Oh yes, they had a very big score to settle.

And then, just like that, the golden opportunity had arrived. It was perfect.

Lester pushed himself up on to one arm and reached for the side, hauling himself to his feet. His cock still hurt from where that hooker had kicked him. He scratched at his balls, yawning, preparing for the day ahead.

Every day he was preparing.

This summer, in three months’ time, the premiere of Lana’s new movie was going to that bastard’s hotel. Lester kept track of every damn move those killers made.

When he was done with them, there would be nothing left. No more Lana Falcon and no more Robert St Louis. Patience, at long last, would be rewarded.

Vegas was going to be a glorious reunion.