Adrian McKinty - Fifty Grand

The next house, however, was the one I’d been in the night before. The retro-future place with all the curves. Minimalist furniture, a low leather sofa, uncomfortable high-angled chairs, stainless steel light fittings, an ebony living room table. Huge windows facing the Old Boulder Road to the east and the Rockies to the west. It looked better in daylight. Angela showed me how to get in and how to disable the burglar alarm. The code was still the default 9999. Jack Tyrone was in the kitchen reading a newspaper. He had a box of Frosted Flakes in front of him and a french press filled with what I could tell from the hall was overroasted coffee. There was a new bowl of fruit on the breakfast bar. More kiwis to steal.

I scoped Jack in the daylight. Ricky’s notes and his party anecdote flashed in my head. Suspect 2A, Youkilis’s employer, 31, born Denver, Colorado, Hollywood actor, pretty good alibi for the night of the accident-he was sixteen hundred kilometers away in Los Angeles-but I wouldn’t rule him out until I’d spoken to him.

“Do we say good morning?” I whispered to Angela.

She shook her head. We took off our coats, found the cleaning supplies, and began work. I dusted, she vacuumed.

“Maaling, lallies,” Jack said with a full mouth, attempting to carry his newspaper, coffee, and cereal bowl into the living room without a major accident.

“Good morning, Señor Tyrone,” Angela said.

He looked better than when I’d encountered him last night. In fact, more than better, very handsome indeed if you went for pale, blond, athletic, American . And to my surprise I found that I went for ’em in spades. “Those corn-fed western boys,” Ricky once said, and I could see what he meant. Jack’s complexion was pale, but even preshower he radiated health and strength. His body was chiseled and his jaw downy but not weak. His hair was tousled attractively and his blue eyes were the color of the marlin-filled sea off Santiago, rather than last night’s muddy Havana Bay. The blue eyes now were smiling at us. “Might have a job, ladies, Paul knocked a bottle of wine on the Persian. They tried to clean it last night and I fucking Pledged it and Oxy-ed it this morning but it’s still there.”

We looked at the stain. Jack’s efforts had produced a yellow chemical burn. The rug was ruined.

While Angela explained the catastrophe I took the vacuum upstairs. I had to spend twenty minutes picking clothes and food items off the floor before I could begin cleaning.

I hadn’t been up here last night, but this was obviously where Tyrone’s personality fully expressed itself. There were movie posters on the wall and film stills. Apparently he was something of a rising star, but I hadn’t heard of him prior to Ricky’s report. I had seen one or two of the films he’d been in but Jack’s presence had not made an impression. From the stills I saw that he’d appeared in Mr. and Mrs. Smith with Brad Pitt and Mission Impossible 3 with Tom Cruise, but obviously in such small roles that his name hadn’t gotten on the posters.

In his bedroom he had headshots of himself, several awards, and a gigantic signed and framed picture of a man and his double in a tacky-looking space uniform.

I examined the awards.

LATO Best Newcomer 1999, Sundance Best New Talent 1998, Sho West Up and Comer Award 2000.

There was nothing recent, and this made me wonder if his career was quite as hot as it had been.

In the upstairs bathroom there were mirrors everywhere and enough hair care product to have started a salon. Even Party wives in Havana didn’t spend this much time on their coiffure.

I was sniffing something called Plum Island Soap Company skin cream with appreciation when he suddenly appeared behind me in the mirror.

He was grinning. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking of that Carly Simon song, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me,” I said, quickly putting the lid back on the cream.

“Carly Simon… the Warren Beatty song. Ok, you’re drawing a blank, before your time, I guess, don’t worry about it. Uhm, what’s your name?”

“María.”

“‘María, I just met a girl called María,’ ” he sang in a thin baritone. It was a song I didn’t know, but I smiled encouragingly.

“I haven’t seen you before, when did you start?” he asked.

“I was here last night,” I said.

“Oh, God, you were? Saw me at my worst. Sorry about that. Honestly, I’m not that big of an asshole.”

“No, you were very polite to me,” I said.

“I was? Huh. Well, of course I was. Mind if I just brush my teeth? Paul’s coming in a minute.”

He began brushing his teeth while I made the bed.

“What do you think of the old abode?” he asked, foaming at the mouth.

“Very nice.”

“Yeah, I like it. Live here a lot of the year, ski season. L.A. the rest. That explains the headshots. Want to be clear about that. I’m not a nutcase. I mean, you never know. Veronica Lake in the coffee shop. Natalie Portman walking down the street.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

He noticed my bafflement, spat, and rubbed a towel on his face.

“The headshots. On the wall. I rent this house out when I’m filming. You don’t know who’ll be staying here. Casting agents, whatever. Hence the headshots. It’s all contacts. That’s all it is. Talent is about five percent of it.”

“ Sí . Contacts. You meeting me, for example. My cousin is Salma Hayek, she’s looking for a costar,” I said.

His eyes widened, but before I could further extend the fib I broke into a smile. When he saw that I was kidding, he laughed out loud. A pleasant, infectious laugh that filled the room.

“Oooh, good one. I’m going to have to watch out for you, I can tell. Where are you from?”

“Yucatán.”

“The Yucatán, uh, that’s down somewhere, uhm, in the Central American area, I think, right?”

“Geography is not your strong suit,” I said.

“Wow, you’re totally unimpressed by me. Refreshing. I had a maid in L.A. who sold my pubes on eBay.”

I didn’t know the words pubes or eBay but I could tell from the creases around his eyes that he was being funny, so I gave him a smile.

“She got a hundred bucks. Not a lot, and I put in two fake bids to get the price up.” He leaned against the wall and shook his head. “It’s a crazy business. Crazy. I could tell you stories. I won’t, though, I know that guy you work for, uh, the one with the beard, keeps you on a pretty tight schedule.”

“Esteban.”

“Yeah, Esteban, Paul says he can get us just about anything we… well, never mind that. Have you time for one quick story?”

“Sí, señor.”

“Jack, please.”

“Sí, Señor Jack.”

“Just Jack, but anyway, so I’m on MI3 with Cruise. Two-page role. Probably doesn’t remember me. Been here a year now and not one invite to the fucking house, excuse my French. Fucking Kidman’s been there more than I have and she and Katie are like matter and antimatter… Lost my train of… Oh, yeah, so the grips tell me on MI3 that he has a special shredder in his trailer that vaporizes everything, burns everything to a crisp, you know, so no one can go through his garbage and sell it on the Net. What do you think of that? Paranoid, huh?” Jack said. His face fell. “Not much of a story, actually, was it?”

“It was a good story. Tom Cruise is very famous,” I said in slightly more broken English than I was capable of. Better if he underestimated me a little.

Jack sighed and looked unhappy.

Below us the front doorbell rang. “That’ll be the brains of the operation. I better go,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.”