The Basement (5 page)

“No one's trying to run you out of town, Marvin,” says Marcinko.

“But you'd be a lot happier out there, that's for sure,” says Turner. “Sun, sand, starlets. Why don't you go buy yourself a one-way ticket?”

“Yeah, you'd contribute would you, Sergeant Turner? On a cop's salary? I don't think so.”

There's a flash of anger in his eyes. I got to him. I smile.

“You know that several young women have been murdered in this city over the past few months?” asks Marcinko.

“I watch TV.”

“So you do know that there's a serial killer on the loose?”

“On the loose? You make it sound like a wild dog.”

“That's what he is, Marvin. A wild dog. And we have to catch him. So I think you can understand why we don't want strangers standing outside people's homes. Right?”

I smile sweetly at her. “Officer Marcinko, if I was a serial killer, I'd hardly be standing out here in plain sight, would I?”

“How would you know how a serial killer behaves, Waller?” asks Turner, his voice loaded with contempt.

“I'm a writer,” I say.

“Yeah, a writer who's yet to sell a screenplay. A wannabee writer.”

For the first time I turn and look at him. I don't say anything, I just look at him. Into his soul.

“I'd like to go now, please,” I say. They step apart, and I walk away.

* * *

You tap the code number into the keypad, check through the peephole that she's still on the bed, and you open the door. There's no way she could possibly slip out of the padlocked chains, but it's better to be safe than sorry. She turns her head towards you, her eyes wet from crying. You close the door behind you and it clunks shut with a dull, solid thud that echoes around the room.

You ask her how she is and she says she wants to go home. You hold up the stun gun and explain to her that you never want to hear her ask to be released again. You press the button and it crackles and sparks and she nods quickly and says that she understands and that she's sorry. You smile and put the stun gun away. “Good,” you tell her, “that's good.” You walk over to the bed and sit down. She swallows nervously. “How are you, Sarah?” you ask, your voice soft.

“I'm fine,” she says. She smiles nervously, a quick flash of perfect, white teeth.

“Good, that's good,” you say. “Would you like me to unchain you?”

The look of anticipation on her face is so transparent that it makes you smile. She thinks that once she's unchained she's only one step away from freedom. You shake your head,

almost sadly. You explain how it's going to work, that you'll remove the chain from her wrists and her ankles and that you'll replace them with one chain around her waist which will keep her fastened to the wall. It will allow her to sleep on the bed and to reach the bathroom,

but she won't be able to get to the door. She nods, still assuming that it'll be easier to escape once the chains are off. You stroke her face again and she smiles. You can tell it's not genuine, she's trying to fool you, but that's okay. It's a start.

“I'll be good,” she says, but you know she doesn't mean it.

“I know you will,” you say. “But I haven't finished explaining what I want. Be silent until I've finished.“ She nods, eager to please. ”The first thing you must remember is that you only speak if I ask you a question. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she replies hesitantly, as if it's a trap and you're going to punish her for replying.

“Good,” you say, "that's really good. Now, I'm going to take the chains off today so that you can get to the bathroom and wash. Tomorrow, when I come in, you will get off the bed,

you'll stop whatever it is you're doing and you'll stand before me, your head bowed, your eyes on the floor. I want your complete obedience, nothing less. Whatever I ask you to do, you will do without question." Her eyes open wide as she realises the ramifications of what you're saying and you press a finger to her full lips to silence her because if she speaks you'll have to punish her. “I'll ask you to take your clothes off and you'll do it, won't you?”

She's frightened, you can see it in her eyes. She doesn't know what to say. You reach behind you and show her the knife. It's a big one, heavy and sharp, the sort you could use to carve raw meat and it glints under the overhead lights. “If you don't do it willingly, I can do it right now with this. And a lot worse, too, if you make me. It'll be better if you do it yourself. Do you understand?”

She nods, but the reluctance is clear in her eyes. You take the knife and run the tip of the blade down the silky material of her shirt. “I could cut them off now, if you'd prefer.” She shakes her head furiously and you know you've won. You smile and lean forward to plant a light kiss on her forehead. You can still smell spearmint on her breath.

* * *

I go to the movies for an afternoon show and see an actress who'll be just perfect for the female lead in Checking Out. When I get home I pace around the room for a while, wondering if I should send her a copy of the synopsis to see if she'd be interested. I'm hesitating because I've had a few bad experiences writing to stars. In fact, I don't include my name or address when I write to stars anymore, unless I use a PO Box. It's not because the stars themselves don't appreciate fans writing to them, but for some reason they tend to surround themselves by over-protective idiots.

I don't know if they set out to hire unsuitable people, in fact I'm sure they don't, but I guess that the people they employ start to resent their employers after a while and stop acting in their best interests. I can understand that, I really can. I mean, it must be hard for an ordinary person to work in the shade of a star, someone like Cher or Madonna or Julia Roberts. They'd always know that no matter how hard they worked they could never hope to achieve one half of one per cent of their employer's success. That sort of thing could turn anyone sour, anyone who wasn't mentally stable,

that is.

Anyway, people like that, after a while they become over-protective, they do everything they can to keep between the stars and their fans. They form a sort of defensive wall, I guess because it adds to their own sense of importance. I wrote to a really cute blonde in a daytime soap a couple of years back. She's beautiful, really sexy, and totally wasted in the soap. I wrote and told her, and said that she'd be a natural to play the lead in a movie I'd written and that I'd like to talk to her about it. A month went by and she still hadn't replied so I wrote again and sent her a photocopy of my first letter, but the day after I sent it I got a letter from her, and a signed photograph. Well, it wasn't actually a letter specially for me, it was a standard letter: thanks for my support, glad I liked the show, that sort of thing. No mention of my script. So I wrote again, saying that she must have misunderstood, but a few days later I got another photograph, the same one, believe it or not, and another standard letter. The wording was identical. I got mad then, and wrote a letter saying that I could only assume that my letters weren't reaching her and that someone on her staff must be intercepting them. A secretary probably. The old secretarial wall strikes again. Anyway, I sent the letter by Federal Express direct to the studio where they record the show but I never got a reply.

I realised that the only way I was going to get to her would be to go in person, so I bought a huge bouquet of flowers, a hundred bucks worth, and took it round to the lot. I told the security guard there that I worked for a delivery service and that they had to be delivered to the director. I got to within ten feet of her - and yes, she looks even sexier in real life - but then an overweight woman with bad skin and greasy hair came up to me and asked who I was and what I wanted. I gave her the delivery story but she called the security guard over had them throw me off the set. I was sure that she was the one who'd been intercepting my letters.

The security guard was another of life's underachievers: he gave me a warning and kicked me off the lot. I wrote another letter to the actress, explaining what had happened because I don't think she saw me, and I'm sure she didn't know how badly I'd been treated. I asked her if I could meet her, maybe even take her to lunch.

I got a visitor a week or so later. At two o'clock in the morning. The doorbell rang and I was half asleep when I answered it. I was wearing my bathrobe and nothing else and my eyes were thick with sleep, which is how the guy managed to take me by surprise, I guess. He asked me if I was Marvin Waller and I said I was and then he hit me in the stomach, hard. He pushed me back into the apartment and kicked the door shut, then made me sit on the coffee table. He was Italian and looked as if he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. His suit was made of some expensive, shiny material, and he had spats. Yeah, I remember the spats because I had my head down for the first minute or two while I massaged my stomach and got my breath back. Black shoes with white,

spotless spats.

He grabbed my hair and forced me to look up, and he threw some letters at me. The letters I'd written to the actress. I looked at the letters and when I looked up again he had a gun in his hand.

A big one. An automatic. He shoved it under my nose and said that I was never again to write to her, that I wasn't to go within five miles of her, the studio, or her house. That if I did, he'd come and see me again and that he wouldn't be as gentle. He asked me if I understood, like I was some sort of retard. I told him I did. He asked me if I agreed to stay away from her and I said yes. I wasn't afraid, I really wasn't, because I could see he still had the safety on. He didn't scare me, I just told him what he wanted to hear so that he'd get the hell out of my apartment. He went, with his shiny suit and sparkling spats and Mafia accent. I didn't write to the actress again, I couldn't see the point, but it was the last time I ever put my address on a letter to a star.

The memory makes my hands shake and I pace around the room, faster and faster. I decide it'd be better not to send the synopsis to the actress I'd seen at the movie theatre. Especially now that Marcinko and Turner are on my case. I've too much too lose.

The doorbell rings and even before I open the door I know it's them.

“Marvin, can we come in?” asks Marcinko. I look at her and smile. “Please,” she adds. I take off the chain and open the door for her. I get a whiff of something sweet and fragrant, like a fresh meadow. Turner follows her into the room, bringing with him the smell of sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

“Now what?” I say, directing the question at Marcinko because I prefer to deal with her. Turner is giving off bad vibes, like he wants to smash me against the wall and drive his knee into my groin. I don't like Turner, and it's clear he doesn't think I'm flavour of the month.

“Marvin, we'd like you to come down to the station with us.”

“Why, are you scared to be out on your own?”

She laughs despite herself and her hand goes up to cover her mouth. Her teeth are surprisingly white, surprising because cops tend to drink a lot of coffee and smoke too many cigarettes. Yellow teeth go with the job, but Marcinko's belong in a toothpaste advertisement. I wonder what she'd be like to kiss. “No Marvin, I'm not scared to be out on my own. But we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“Can't we do that here?”

“Why, are you scared of going out?” asks Turner. He's staring at the bed.

“Probable cause?” I say.

Marcinko shakes her head. “We'd just like to talk to you.”

“About doormen?”

“No. Not about doormen.”

“About what then?”

“Forget this shit,” Turner says to Marcinko. “Let's just take him in.”

"I'll only come with you if you arrest me, and you don't have probable cause to make an arrest.

If you make an illegal arrest then it won't matter if you Miranda me or let me call a lawyer, any case you eventually make will fail. Fruit of the poisoned tree."

“I'll give you fruit of the poisoned tree,” he snarls, thrusting his face close up to mine. I breathe out and his spectacles fog up. I have to clamp my teeth together to stop myself grinning as he backs away and wipes the lenses with a bright red handkerchief.

“Unfortunately for you, Sergeant Turner, I know my rights.”

“We know you know your rights, Marvin,” says Marcinko. “You're a very intelligent individual.”

I look into Officer Marcinko's deep blue eyes. She's using a dark blue mascara to bring out the colour. She has the most amazing eyes. “Don't bother trying to flatter me,” I say.

Her eyes widen like it was the last thing on her mind. “I just think we'd be more comfortable down at the station. I mean, it's not as if you have much in the way of chairs.”

She's right, of course, there is only the one chair. I think of asking her to sit on the bed with me,

but decide against it. “That suggests it's going to take some time,” I say.

She shrugs. “We've a few questions for you.”

“And you can't ask them here?”

“We'd prefer to do it downtown.”

“On your turf?”

“Sort of. Will you?” She smiles, showing her perfect teeth. “Please.”

She's definitely used to getting her own way. And she's clearly told Turner to take a back seat so that she can work her magic on me. “I'll do you a deal?” I say.

She seems amused. “A deal?”

“Yeah. Let me see your credentials and badge.”

“That's all?”

I hold out my hand. “Sure.”

She takes out a black leather wallet and flips it open. I take it off her and hold out my other hand to Turner. He looks at her and she nods. He gives me his wallet, but he's not happy about it.

I sit down and copy down the details on a sheet of paper.

“What are you doing?” Turner asks, frowning.

“For my records,” I say.

“Your records? What fucking records?”

I smile benignly. “Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Sergeant Turner.” I hand his wallet back to him, and toss the other one to Marcinko. She catches it one-handed. “Okay,” I say. “Let's go.”

There's a dirty brown sedan parked outside and I get to sit in the back. I don't have to go with them but I'm having fun with Marcinko. She's cute, for a cop. Lisa is her first name, according to the ID. We drive into the parking lot of the police station and they take me through a back entrance along green-painted corridors to an interview room. Turner waves me to a chair. “Do I get a phone call?” I ask.