The Bequest (8 page)

Limousines stretched from
the front of the Beverly Hilton,
down the street, and around the corner. Uniformed, and sometimes

tuxedoed, chauffeurs stood beside their cars, some smoking, but all talking
amongst themselves, no doubt regaling each other with tales of the absurd
about the conduct of the rich and famous in the back seats of limos. Stories
ranged from the overt sexual to illegal to flat-out gross. Celebrity and
fortune had imbued many in Hollywood with the notion that rules of
decency and courtesy simply didn’t apply to them. The chauffeurs who
drove them may have been silent while transporting their charges, but
they weren’t deaf and blind.

If anything, the crowd gathered along the rope lines had increased in
size and sound, no doubt fueled by curiosity seekers who had joined their
ranks and others who simply had nothing better to do with their time. The
scraggly-haired man with the tattooed forearm hugged the rope, fighting
to keep position in front. He had to occasionally push back with an elbow
to force others away, but for the most part the crowd avoided contact
with him. Although they pressed against each other, hips brushing hips,
shoulders against shoulders, a small bubble seemed to have encompassed
the man. Perhaps the ragged teeth and greasy hair sounded hygiene
warnings that the others subconsciously heeded. Joining the adoring fans
were scores of paparazzi, cameras at the ready, prepared at a moment’s
notice to catch smiles, frowns, and awkward short-skirted entries into
vehicles.

A shout went out as the front door of the hotel opened and the first
wave of celebrities began exiting. They came in small groups, usually two
or three at a time, a few seconds apart, as if wanting to ensure that no one
else intruded on their limelight as they walked to their waiting limos. The
scraggly-haired man gripped the velvet rope with one hand. With the
other, he clutched the Teri Squire glossy. He kept his eyes fixed on the
front door, oblivious to the glitz and glamour that exited. As far as he was
concerned, the beautiful people were a dime a dozen. Only one of them
mattered to him.

And there she was, her boyfriend in tow, making her way toward the
curb. She smiled, chatted with fans, and signed autographs while the
boyfriend talked on his cell phone. The scraggly-haired man wondered if
there was anyone on the other end of the call, or if it was all just for show.
He had his money riding on the latter.

He strained against the rope, eager with anticipation as she drew
closer. Although she was Hollywood royalty, albeit minor royalty these
days, he had to admit there was a freshness, almost a wholesomeness,
about her. The kind of innocence that was usually accompanied by naïveté,
and which would play right into his hands She was ten feet away, now
eight, now five—and now right in front of him. He thrust the picture
toward her. As she took it, he saw her look at his forearm with the blue
tattoo of a football helmet, a star inside the outline. She froze for a brief
second, staring at it.

Something about the tattoo nagged at Teri. She knew the familiar Dallas
Cowboys logo by heart—what Texan didn’t?—but she tried to remember
where she had heard about a tattoo like that. Then the man spoke, and the
name he used churned up a memory. Terror gripped her. She stared at his
face, which looked remarkably like the one in the photo that Annemarie
Crowell had shown her when she first brought over the screenplay.

But that was impossible! Leland Crowell was dead.
“I knew you’d like my script,” the man said.
“It’s my script,” Teri replied, though she knew her words, which

“Hmmm. Wonder if dear old mom actually probated my will. She’s
forgetful sometimes.” He smiled then added, “And if I’m not really dead,
does it matter?”

Teri felt strength drain from her legs, and she sagged, fighting to stay
afoot. Mike grabbed her elbow and whispered into her ear. “You okay?”
Teri ignored him as she tried to give the photo back to the man, who
pushed it into her hand. “Have your people call my people,” he said.
“We’ll do lunch.
Ciao
!”
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
Almost in a daze, unblinking, mind not fully grasping what had just
happened, Teri made her way to the limo with Mike’s help. In her hand,
she gripped the glossy photograph of herself. As she settled into the back
seat, Mike clambered in beside her.
“What happened back there?” he asked. “Who was that guy?”
Teri shook her head. Mute, she turned and stared out the window.
Mike punched in a number on his cell phone. “Check out a guy on
the rope line,” he said. “Tall, thin, long hair. Looks like a homeless guy.”
Teri looked at the headshot. It had been taken just prior to her first
Oscar. It was wrinkled and worn along the edges, with what appeared to
be a greasy thumbprint on the left side. Teri’s stomach roiled at the
thought of the greasy-haired man holding the photo with one hand.
She turned it over to see if there were additional finger stains on the
back side. In small, neat handwriting, there was a single inscription:
CRESCENT HOTEL 324.
Teri folded the picture and glanced at Mike. He was still on the
phone, face pressed to the window, searching the crowd. He hadn’t yet
noticed the picture in her hand. She folded it and tucked it under the seat.
“No,” she said.
“What?” he asked, pulling the phone away.
“It was nothing. Forget about it. Let’s just go to the theater.”
Mike put the phone back to his ear. “Find him.” Then he hung up and
looked at Teri.
She stared straight ahead.

There was a packed house for the movie, just what every actress wants.
The audience seemed captivated by the action on the silver screen,
collectively gasping at the right moments, tittering and giggling with relief
at others, but hanging on every word spoken by the characters, drawn into
a story of breathtaking suspense and psychological terror. Teri looked
good up there, her face reflecting the same emotion as the audience, or
maybe it was vice versa. No one in Teri’s camp questioned that they had a
bona fide
hit on their hands. No, not just a hit; a blockbuster.

But Teri didn’t seem to notice any of that. She couldn’t even watch
herself on the big screen. She had seen a rough cut on a smaller screen at
the studio, but this was her first chance to watch the story play out on this
big a scale. Yet her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t get the scragglyhaired man out of her mind. His thin face, his vacant eyes. Dead eyes. And
that damned tattoo.

Other memories rushed back. The freakish Annemarie Crowell, her
face pale, her lips bright red, all made up as if for the circus. Eyes so dark
they looked black. Emotionless. The grieving mother who didn’t grieve.
Sitting in Teri’s den, talons clutching her dead son’s screenplay as she
subtly swayed, perched on the edge of a chair. The words that stung:
“You’re yesterday’s news.” Shoving that picture of her dead son in Teri’s
face.

Yeah, the dead son who looked remarkably similar to the man outside. And
who shared his mother’s dead eyes.
Just what in the hell was going on?
Teri turned and glanced at the row behind her, where her “angels” sat
with their wives. Their attention was riveted to the screen, counting
dollars in their heads, most likely. All, that is, but Doug Bozarth. His eyes
locked with hers. She was suddenly struck by the deadness in those eyes,
even in the darkened theater. Eyes that could have belonged to Annemarie
Crowell or the man on the rope line.
Bozarth nodded his head ever so slightly. She couldn’t be sure it had
moved at all. She nodded back then turned to face the front.
“You okay?” Mike whispered.
“I’m fine.” But she could tell he didn’t believe her. Hell, she didn’t
even believe herself.

The Crescent Hotel
not only looked like a place that probably
rented rooms by the hour, it actually
was
a place that rented rooms by the
hour. A neon light alternately flashed green and purple, announcing
vacancies, which was no surprise to any passersby. Two stories fanned east
and west from the office, the façade a fading beige. Only a handful of cars
dotted the parking area, the newest at least a decade old. A certain kind of
person inhabited places like this. The kind of person you didn’t want to
meet on a dark street, and the kind of person you certainly didn’t want to
see in your respectable neighborhood or take home to meet mom and dad.

A checkered taxi pulled up in front of the office, sat for a moment,
then disgorged that very kind of person. The scraggly-haired man slammed
the door shut, then went to the stairs and ascended to the second floor
landing, taking the stairs two at a time. At the far end of the landing from
the office, he unlocked the door to Room 324 and went inside.

The man flipped a light switch just inside the door, which illuminated
a dim lamp on a nightstand that perched on matchstick legs. The bed had
not been made, likely for days, the threadbare bedspread in a pile on the
floor and the sheets swirled into a tangled mess in the middle of the
mattress. A non-matching nightstand on the other side of the bed held
empty soda cans, a Styrofoam container of taco crumbs in which two
roaches cavorted, and a cigarette lighter.

The most disturbing thing about the bed, though, sat perched on the
side nearest the cockroach playground: Annemarie Crowell, with her
painted face.
“How’d you get in?” he asked.
“Is it done?”
“Answer my question.”
“Does it really matter how I got in?”
“It does to me.”
She shrugged, and one corner of her mouth raised a fraction. “It’ll

He walked to the dresser, just as mismatched as the rest of the
furniture, extracted a thin wallet from his back pocket, and put it on top.
He grabbed an open can of orange soda and took a swig.

“Is it done?” Annemarie asked again.
“I gotta tell you, it’s weird coming back from the dead.”
“Did she know who you were?”
“She knew.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Trust me, she knew.”
He set the can down and went into the tiny bathroom. Remnants of

whiskers and shaving cream scum decorated the sink, although they were
not nearly as eye-catching as were the orange streaks of rust. He stripped
off his shirt, revealing a dangerously thin torso with ribs punched out
against the skin. The kind of body prisoners-of-war often returned home
with after months or years of incarceration—or drug addicts too strung
out to eat.

Annemarie swiveled her head to watch him as he splashed water on
his face and dried it with a towel he picked up from the floor. He looked
at himself in the mirror, ran a hand through his hair as if it made a
difference, then turned toward Annemarie.

“Just baited the trap. The little mousey will come for the cheese soon
enough.”
“Good.”
He turned back to the mirror and studied his reflection. Annemarie
stood robotically then went to the bathroom. She entered and stood
directly behind him, looking over his shoulder. In the mirror, it appeared
to him as if he had two heads.
He turned the water on again and took a can of shaving cream from
the
medicine
cabinet behind
the
mirror.
As he
lathered his face,
Annemarie put her arms around him. Her hands caressed his chest, her
fingers tangling in a thin nest of graying hair.
Against his will, his nipples sprang erect and his groin stirred. She slid
one hand down across his stomach as she gripped a nipple with the
fingernails of the other.
She squeezed the nipple, pinching hard with her nails. The other
hand slipped inside the waistband of his pants and found the handle it
sought.
She kissed him on the back of the neck, purred softly in his ear.
For a moment he stood still, his eyes closed. The pain in his nipple
gave way to pleasure as her other hand moved up and down.
He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. She stared at him, no
pleasure on her face. Rather it was the look of a worker dutifully going
about her chores.
“Enough,” he said.
He grabbed her wrist at the waistband of his pants and pulled her
hand out, then spun around and evaded her grip on his nipple.
Her lips curled again, ever so slightly. She held her fingers to her
mouth and licked the tips of her fingernails.
“She’ll be here soon,” he said.
“Can you be sure?”
“I saw her face. She’ll be here.”
Annemarie turned and left the bathroom. As soon as she cleared the
doorway, the man slammed the door shut. After a few seconds, he heard
the sound of the outside door open and close.
He opened the bathroom door and looked out. Sure enough, she was
gone.
He glanced down at his chest, where a line of blood trickled from his
nipple. Further down, he saw the bulge at his crotch.
He spun and punched his fist into the mirror.