The Basement (6 page)

“A phone call? What do you want a phone call for?”

“It's my right, isn't it?”

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. There's a class ring on it, blue with bits of yellow in it. “All we're doing is having a talk here, Waller.”

Marcinko closes the door and stands leaning against it, her arms folded across her chest.

“Sure, but I'd like to make a phone call,” I say. “Am I under arrest?”

“You know you're not under arrest, Marvin,” says Marcinko. “We'd have read you your rights if you were under arrest.”

“He knows that,” says Turner. “He knows all there is to know about his rights.”

“So I'd like to make a phone call, okay.”

“Are you calling a lawyer, Marvin?” asks Marcinko.

“Why? Do I need a lawyer?”

“You tell me,” she says. She uncrosses her arms and moves away from the door. “But if you do call a lawyer, we'll think that you've got something to hide.”

We stand looking at each other for several seconds. I have an almost irresistible impulse to kiss her on the lips. I smile, wondering how she'd react, whether she'd pull her gun or kiss me back.

“I'll just be a few minutes,” I say. I pat my pockets. “I don't suppose you've got a quarter, have you?”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Turner behind me, put Marcinko takes out a small leather purse and gives me a quarter, like a mother handing out pocket money to a child. Our fingers touch as she gives me the coin and there's a spark, like static electricity.

“Did you feel that?” I ask.

She smiles and opens the door for me. “Go make your call, Marvin.”

Five minutes later and I'm back in the room. Turner stands in a corner like a cigar-store wooden Indian, face impassive, and Marcinko is sitting at the table. “Sit down, Marvin,” she says. Great.

It's going to be the good cop-bad cop routine and it's no surprise whose going to be playing the good cop. Lisa with the smiling eyes.

I sit down and give her the boyish grin, flicking the hair out of my eyes. She wants me, I can tell. She might not realise it yet, but Officer Lisa Marcinko has the hots for me. “So, what's up?” I ask as if I haven't a care in the world.

She takes out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter and offers me one. I shake my hand.

“Mind if I do?” she asks, trying to build a relationship between us.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Just remember that smoking kills.”

She smiles thinly and lights up, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling through slightly pursed lips. “So, Marvin. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

“You sound like you're interviewing me for a job.”

“You're twenty-three years old, yes?”

“Yes.” She could have got that from my driving licence.

“You went to the New York Film School for two semesters, yes?”

“Yes.” That didn't come off my driving licence. They've been making enquiries. I wonder how much digging they've done.

“Why did you drop out?”

“I wasn't learning anything.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“You know what they say. If you can't do, teach.”

“You're quite smart aren't you?”

“You tell me.”

She takes another deep pull on the cigarette. “Yes, I think you're quite smart. Have you ever had your IQ measured?”

“Once or twice.”

“And?”

“One eighty. Or thereabouts.”

Her eyes widen. “That's genius level.”

“And some.” She smiles. Maybe she hadn't realised how smart I am.

“You're interested in film, aren't you?”

“Sure. I'm a screenwriter.” There's a snort from Turner and I know what he's thinking.

“Do you have a video camera?”

Interesting question that. I think I know what she's getting at. “Sure. Doesn't everyone these days?”

“Where is it?”

“At home. I haven't used it for ages.”

She nods and flicks ash onto the floor. There's no ashtray in the interview room. Maybe they think I'll use it as a weapon. “Why do you think it is that you haven't sold a script, Marvin?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“You think your screenplays are good, don't you?”

“Sure.”

“And plenty of less talented writers get their work accepted, right?”

“Too right.”

“So, what's holding you back?”

I lean forward. “Secretaries,” I say.

“Secretaries?”

“Yeah. They're emissaries of Satan.”

“Really?”

I lean back and grin. “No, of course not. But they act as barriers. That's why I wait outside buildings, to get to the top guy.”

She nods. “You've written several letters complaining about secretaries, haven't you?”

“Some. I figure that the guys at the top should know what's going on, that's all. Why are you asking about secretaries?”

“Just routine,” she says.

“I don't think so. I don't think it's routine at all. The serial killer you're looking for has killed three secretaries so far, hasn't he? And the woman who's missing, the latest one, she's a secretary too, isn't she?”

“That was on the TV, was it?” asks Marcinko.

“Or in the Times, yeah.”

“What do you know about the latest case?”

I raise my eyebrows. “You're asking me?”

“Sure. Maybe you can help us.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you might have a different perspective. A writer's perspective.”

My neck starts to itch and I want to scratch it, but I know she'll take any nervous movement as an indication of guilt, so I block the itch out of my mind.

“So, do you know the woman's name?”

“Hall,” I say. “Sarah Hall.”

“She's not one of the secretaries who works for Satan, is she?”

I laugh. If she's trying to trap me, she's way too obvious. "I shouldn't think so. Do you mean,

does she work for a producer or director? Is she one of the women who've been giving me a hard time? I don't know, Officer Marcinko. Or may I call you Lisa?"

“You can call me Lisa if you want.”

I turn to look at Turner. “What about you, Ed?”

“You can call me Sergeant Turner, Waller.”

“Fine by me, Ed,” I say, and flash him a grin. Fuck him. I look back at Marcinko.

“You've seen the videos, haven't you Marvin?”

“The ones he sends to the TV stations. Sure. Everyone has.”

“Tell me about the videos.”

I sit back in the chair and look into her blue eyes, trying to read what's on her mind. “He makes them do things to themselves, and films them.”

She nods. “That's right. And then what does he do?”

I shrug. “I guess he kills them.”

“And then what?”

“Then he gets rid of the bodies, I suppose.”

She leans forward. “That's not been on the TV, has it, Marvin?”

“What?”

“The bodies. We've never found their bodies.”

“Maybe he's too smart for you.”

Our eyes lock for what seems an eternity. I can feel her looking right inside me. It's a scary feeling, like she was searching through my pockets and there's nothing I can do to stop her. "Yes,

Marvin. Maybe he is."

“You're sweating, Waller,” says Turner. He walks to stand behind Marcinko. Good cop, bad cop. “You're sweating like maybe you're hiding something from us.”

“It's hot in here,” I say.

“It's not that hot,” says Turner. “Are you hot, Marcinko?”

“No. Not really.”

"See, Waller. It's not hot in here. You're sweating, man. Sweating like a pig. A stinking,

sweating, guilty pig."

I smile tightly because I don't feel like smiling. I feel like lashing out, like kicking and hitting until I make him bleed. “Guilty of what, Ed?”

He's just about to answer when the door opens and a uniformed cop sticks his head into the room.

“Hey, Marcinko. You got a guy called Waller in here?”

I raise a hand like I'm in school. “This is him,” says Marcinko. “Why?”

The cop grins. “He's got a visitor,” he says.

“A fucking lawyer,” sighs Turner. “I knew it.”

The cop's grin widens and he pushes the door open. There's a pizza delivery boy there carrying a cardboard box. I smile at Marcinko. “I wasn't sure what you liked, so I ordered a deep pan with everything on it. Everything except anchovies. I hate anchovies.”

Marcinko can't stop herself from smiling at me. She looks really pretty when she smiles.

There's a spark in her that even the job can't stifle. “Me too,” she says, and I can feel a bond forming between us.

* * *

You check through the peephole and see her lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You tap out the combination on the keypad and as you push open the door she jumps to her feet,

the chain clinking on the floor as she stands up. For a second she forgets to avert her eyes but then she sees the stun gun and quickly looks at the floor. Her hands begin to tremble and she clasps them together in front of her. You keep looking at her as you close the door behind you. She doesn't look up and you smile. She is learning quickly. You walk slowly towards her, taking your time, savouring it. The anticipation is half the pleasure. You stop when you get to within six feet of her and you know that she can see your legs but still she doesn't look up. Her blonde hair has swung forward creating a curtain around her face and it brushes against her shoulders making a soft, swishing sound.

Her skirt reaches to just above her knees and hugs her hips and thighs. She is standing with her legs slightly apart and the material is stretched between them. You look down at her legs and realise that something is wrong. She isn't wearing her shoes. You see them underneath the bed and when you look back at her legs you see that smooth and tanned as they are, she isn't wearing her stockings.

“Where are your stockings?” you ask sharply and she flinches.

“The bathroom,” she says, nervously.

You step forward and punch her in the stomach so hard that she doubles over and her head bangs into your chest. Her body is wracked by coughing sobs and you grab her shoulders and push her upright. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. You take deep breaths to calm yourself down. It's important that all commands are given without anger,

calmly and rationally. With authority. “I told you to wash yourself, and to dress. That means everything. I didn't tell you to leave off your stockings, or your shoes. I want you to look your best. Do you understand, Sarah?”

“Yes,” she says, and reaches up to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.

“Good,” you say. “I want you to shower again, and then I want you to dress properly. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says. She looks up at you, her big blue eyes wet and puffy, then realises that she's broken another rule and quickly lowers her eyes.

“Good,” you say. “But before I leave you, I'm going to have to punish you, so that you don't forget again.” She jerks and pulls away but you push her back onto the bed and hold the stun gun close to her left arm. “I don't want to do this, but it's for your own good,” you say, then you press the button and the electrodes crackle bluely and you push them down against her flesh as she struggles and screams.

* * *

I'm pacing around the apartment in my bare feet, drinking a cup of coffee and chewing on a bagel.

The doorbell rings. “Go away!” I yell, because I'm in the middle of something and I don't want to be disturbed.

“Marvin, open the door please.” It's Marcinko, and I know that she's not alone.

“I'm busy. If you haven't got a warrant, leave me alone.” I carry on pacing and I hear a muffled conversation. Turner is with her. I can feel their presence outside the door and I feel the creative juices stop flowing. I fight to keep my imagination on track but it slips away like dispersing fog. I curse under my breath.

When I open the door they're standing there like soldiers on parade. “How do you guys keep getting in?“ I ask. ”There's a security system that's supposed to keep undesirables out.”

“Ha ha,” says Turner.

“Can we come in?” asks Marcinko. I look at her with one eyebrow raised. “Please?” she adds.

I step aside to let them inside. “Do you want coffee?” I ask. They both shake their heads. “So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Marcinko looks at the stack of paper by the typewriter. “You working on something?”

“Sure, I'm always working on something. Writer's write, that's what we do. You know, like detectives detect.”

Marcinko nods at the paper. “So what is it?”

“It's a thriller. A sort of Die Hard in a Las Vegas casino. Bruce Willis would be great for the lead, might even have a role for Demi.”

“Demi?”

“Demi Moore. His wife. The girl in Ghost, the one who cried.”

“Ah yes. 145 Central Park West. One of your haunts.”

“But that wasn't what I was doing when you got here.” For some reason I want to tell her what I'm working on. I want her to get close to me.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I had this great idea, a real feel-good movie. I'm going to call it Return To Sender, like the Elvis song, you know?”

“Sure I know. I'm a big fan of the king.”

"Yeah? Okay, so it's about five middle-aged rednecks who play poker every Thursday night in a small mid-Western town. They're similar: overweight, badly dressed,loud, obnoxious - and single.

No woman could bear to marry any of them. Then one of the men turns up on poker night with an advertisement for mail order brides from the Philippines and they all agree it's a terrific idea -

beautiful young Asian brides who will do anything for an American.

“They send away for videos of the girls on offer, and two weeks later they're off to Manila for face-to-face meetings. When the five return to their town with young brides, the townsfolk are furious. They reckon that the new arrivals are nothing better than hookers. The local minister delivers a sermon condemning them, the girls are ignored on the street and shopkeepers refuse to serve them. In fact, the girls are, with one exception, good Catholic girls who really do want to be loyal, hard-working wives. The new arrivals are pursued by the young studs of the town, but they're all rebuffed, with the exception of one girl, Rosa, who actually is a former bargirl and who decides to start sleeping with guys for cash behind her husband's back.” Marcinko puts her head on one side as she listens. She seems enthralled, but Turner is kneeling down beside the bed and looking under it. I know what he's looking for. The video camera. I ignore him and continue with the story.