FIVE
Tonight was one of those nights when Marco had decided to get drunk. An ‘honourable occupation’, as his father had always said. He didn’t like to drink in company; in truth, he didn’t much like company. People in this town were full of bullshit (his boss included, half the time) and Marco didn’t want to hear it. He’d come out to Los Angeles after his career in professional wrestling had come to a premature conclusion, half-thinking he might have a crack at acting. Then someone had suggested that personal security might be a good job for a man like himself, since he not only looked intimidating, but had the moves to back up his appearance. So Marco had joined an agency, and after working for a succession of spoiled-brat movie-stars who treated him as though he was something they’d just found on their shoe, he was ready to head for home. Then, within days of his planned departure, the job with Todd Pickett had come along.
It turned out to be a perfect match. He and Todd hit it off from the start. They had the same taste in girls, cars and whisky, which was more or less the contents of Marco’s fantasy world.
Tonight, he wanted a girl, and was tempted to go out, hit the clubs on the Strip, see if he got lucky. If not there was always the credit card: he had no qualms about paying for sex. It certainly beat the five-fingered widow.
But before he went out he always liked to get mellow with a whisky or two: it made him more sociable. Besides, there was something strange about the house tonight, though he didn’t know what. Earlier on, he’d been tempted to go out and take a look around, just to be sure they didn’t have any intruders, but by now the whisky had got him feeling too lazy to be bothered. Fuck it, they should get another dog. Dempsey had been a great early warning system. As soon as anyone came anywhere near the house he’d go crazy. Tomorrow, Marco thought as he headed down from his bedroom to get a fresh bottle of whisky, he’d talk to Todd again about buying a pup, using the security angle to get past Todd’s loyalty to Dempsey.
He found the whisky, and poured himself a glass, taking it neat in one swallow. Then he looked at his watch. It was eleven-twenty. He’d better get moving. Los Angeles was an early town, he’d discovered, especially mid-week. If he didn’t hurry he’d be too late to catch any of the action.
He started back upstairs to fetch his wallet, but halfway up he heard a noise at the bottom of the stairwell. It sounded like a door opening and closing.
“Boss?” he yelled down. “Is that you?”
There was no reply. Just the door, continuing to open and close, though there was no wind tonight to catch it.
“Huh,” he said to himself. He went up, found his wallet, picked up his whisky glass from the kitchen on the way back down, and descended the stairs.
There were plenty of places around the house he hadn’t explored: one of them was the very lowest level of the house, which Jerry had told him were just store-rooms. Nor had he advised using them. They were damp and anything put down there would be mildewed in a month, he said.
A few steps from the bottom of the stairs, Marco emptied his glass, and set it down. He was now drunk, he realized as he stood upright. Not paralytically; just nicely, pleasantly toasted. Smiling a little smile of self-congratulation for having achieved this blissful state, he continued down.
It was cold here, in the bowels of the house. But it wasn’t the damp cold that Jerry had warned him about. This was an almost-bracing cold: like a late autumn night in his home town of Chicago. He went down the little corridor that led from the bottom of the stairs, at the end of which was the noisy door which had brought him down here. What the hell was making it open and close that way?
He felt the answer on his face the closer he got to the door. There was a wind blowing down here, unlikely as that seemed and it smelled not of small, mildewed rooms, but of wide green spaces.