It's Called Disturbing Page 18

  “Excuse me?” Frank’s eyes widened at the sudden attack on his wardrobe, but Tom noticed the man did not finger his tie as Tom was doing at that instant, trying to draw attention away from the garment.

  “You see, Frank,” Travis Bunk waved Frank off and took his place in the center of the room, “You can build rapport all you want, but in the end you are going to piss your prospect off. You spend all that time building a friendship and a relationship with a prospect only to shatter it when you tell them something they may feel uncomfortable listening to. Am I right?” Travis Bunk gestured to the room, but his wave ended with Tom. How the hell could he have known about the gnome, Tom wondered.

  “I don’t think you’re right at all.” Frank ventured, and the room sat silent.

  “Oh?”

  “No,” Frank continued. “Your idea of disturbing is sound enough, but I think you are missing the point here.”

  “I’m missing the point.” Travis Bunk laughed out loud at the prospect. His aides laughed as well, but Tom noticed that not many others in the room were laughing. They were looking from Frank to Travis Bunk, as if expecting a showdown. “If you would have bothered to read my book, the reason we are all gathered here...”

  “I have read your book,” Frank answered. “I’ve read it twice and I think it’s a piece of shit.”

  There was a hush in the room now. Tom could see Travis Bunk flush and his aides moved in their shoes as though they wanted to flee. “I’m sorry?” Travis Bunk said.

  “You should be,” Frank said. “What you are missing is the client’s need to trust their agent. Your book suggests such a hostile view of the prospect, such an antagonistic stance that I can’t believe it works at all.”

  “Really, Frank?” Travis Bunk was smiling but Tom could tell he was nervous, not used to being challenged in this way.

  “Yes, really,” Frank continued. “And, I checked up on you, you haven’t done much else besides writing this book.”

  At this point a different aide, before unnoticed, was at Frank’s side ushering the man out the door. Frank went quietly but smiled at Travis Bunk and tipped an imaginary hat. Bunk did not smile until Frank had safely left the banquet hall. “There goes a man who will never understand success,” he said, to which his aides applauded so loudly that most of the auditorium felt they had to follow suit. “And there is a reason why he is now out in the hall, soon to be checked out of his beautiful suite, and you all are still in here.” More applause. “Now, how many of you have really read my book?” He smiled sardonically while most of the hands in the room reached for the sky.

  In the next few hours, Tom could hear nothing else but the words “my book”, and he counted 77 times. When the seminar broke for the afternoon luncheon, Tom left with one certainty: Travis Bunk was full of shit. There was a second certainty that Tom would not realize until later that evening; he would not be back for the rest of the seminar.

  Tom spent that evening and the next in his room watching old westerns that his father loved until he could finally understand what his father meant by “They’re just good fun and never won any awards.”

  $$$

  Eddy called him at midnight. Twice. The first time, in a sleeping stupor, he believed he would not be fooled into talking to the automated wakeup call system again and simply lifted the receiver and let it fall in its cradle. When she phoned the second time he was a little more awake and realized in fact that it wasn’t morning, but still the same day. “Hello,” he said groggily into the phone.

  “Why did you hang up on me?” Her voice was far away and quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” He sat up in bed rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I thought it was the front desk.”

  “Can you come home?” she said.

  “Eddy, you’re not supposed to be calling me,” he said, but could not remember why. Something about complete isolation from distraction.

  “I need you to be here now,” she said. He could tell she was crying. In his sleep state he became annoyed.

  “I can’t come home now,” he said. “I’m in a seminar.” Which was a lie, of course.

  “You don’t need the stupid goddamn seminar,” she shrieked into the phone, so he had to hold it away from his ear. “I need you here, I said.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, feigning concern.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Everything.”

  “Look, Eddy, I...”

  “Now, I said.” Full on shout.

  “Hang on a minute, just a minute now,” he tried to reason, “One day you’re telling me you don’t believe in me, or even love me, and now you need me there, like now?”

  “I don’t believe in you, and I don’t love you,” she said.

  “Oh, very nice.”

  “But you must come home now.” Her voice calmed a little, but there was still an urgency in it, and a resignation he had never heard before.

  “Eddy, I’ll be home on Monday morning,” he said.

  “Would you stop being so fucking selfish for once in your life and think of me?” She was not shouting at all now, but whispering words that sounded as though they should be shouted.

  “Me?” Tom’s face flushed. “Dammit, Eddy are you kidding me? Me, selfish? What about you? I am in a seminar here and you expect me to drop everything and just rush home because you demand it. What do you need, help lifting the couch out of the apartment? You’re leaving me anyway. I can’t believe this.” Now it was Tom who was shouting. He could hear her shrink and stopped himself from feeling like an asshole.

  “If you don’t come home, I don’t know what will happen,” she said.

  But Tom was too tired and too angry to hear the desperation in her voice. Her cryptic warning fell on deaf (and dumb, let’s face it) ears. “What? What are you so afraid will happen?” he said, “You’ll have a pizza or two?” He immediately felt ashamed at this, but his pride and anger and lack of sleep prevented him from taking it back, which he usually would have done. He had never said anything to Eddy about this sort of thing before and immediately after his shame he felt righteous and indignant.

  “Fuck you,” was all she said in way of a rebuttal and hung up, precluding any argument they might have had, and just when Tom was ready to get going. It had been so long since he felt anything like white anger and he was ready to unleash more, matching hers, of course. When she hung up he felt ashamed again and vowed he would call her tomorrow. First, however, he called the front desk to cancel his wakeup call. The point was moot, anyhow; he had not attended the seminar that afternoon and he doubted he would be there in the morning.

  Chapter 18

  There is a shame that, while not exclusively known to alcoholics, is known best to that sort: that of drinking all night, missing work the next morning and drinking again that day to remedy the guilt. Tom was not an alcoholic, whatever other problems he may have had, but he was not above drinking in the afternoon. He waited until noon and called room service and got plastered on the house wine. The next morning, Sunday, he was sufficiently hungover and knew that hair of the dog would fix him up right, even though he gagged at the prospect. Had he kept up with the newspapers that were piled outside his hotel room door, or bothered to turn on the news at all, he would have realized going down to the hotel bar was a grave mistake, he would have known that his face was displayed for all to see on every newspaper and that every newscaster was saying his name and showing a picture of his home. Worse yet, they were playing sound bites of his voice. Had he known this, he would have not only skipped the hotel bar, but may have even skipped town.

  He dressed as well as he was able and made his way down to the lobby, sweating and being careful not to pass the seminar doors and hoping he would not run into anyone from the meetings, especially the phony fucking author himself.

  In the hotel lounge he had a beer and glanced up at the television mounted above the bar. The newscaster was looking grimly into the camera, “Breaking news,” He said, “Shocking video confession of a b
rutal killer in our city.”

  Tom recognized his own face on the television. He glanced around the bar quickly to see if anyone else had noticed. He shrugged his shoulders a little and hid behind a bottle. He heard his tinny voice from the TV, but could not place the context. He stole glances at the screen. There was his picture, staring into the camera; where the hell did that come from? The caption beneath his photo read: Shocking taped confession made to officials just weeks before the murder!

  Tom’s television voice said, “I’m going to kill my girlfriend! Upstairs. That’s where they hang them.”

  Tom remembered saying those things, but what had he meant at the time? Who had he been talking to? It was out of context. And again, his voice came squeaking out of the small television speakers, laughing this time: “I am not kidding you, I am going to kill my girlfriend.”

  Officials? It was the bloody Power and Gas Company. “Belraj!” Tom said out loud. The bartender looked over in his direction and Tom looked away. The newscast flipped back to the anchorperson. “Excuse me?” Tom ventured. The bartender smiled tightly. “Could I have the remote?”

  The bartender slid him the remote and Tom pointed it at the television. Small green bars were filling up the bottom of the screen. The newscaster boomed: “We talked to Officer Coxcomb earlier this afternoon.” Tom saw the officer on the screen, looking straight out at him and yelling: “We can’t confirm any confession, but we can say that Tom Ryder is a definite person of interest.”

  “Turn it down!” from the back of the bar. The bartender came over to Tom and yanked the remote out of his hands. Soon, the volume was down, and the channel switched to a hockey game.

  There was only one thought on Tom’s mind as his heartbeat drowned out the television: holy shit. It was ridiculous. Out of context. Not even true, really. He had said those words but... could the power company just give away his recorded voice? Didn’t he have to sign a release form or something? Perhaps they sold it to the news. But why? Surely they knew that it wasn’t a real confession. He could sue. Yes, he would sue, and it would be the end of all his problems. What was it called? Slander? Defamation of character.

  What character? The voice was real inside his head as if someone had seated next to him and spoken out loud. What character? Turn yourself in. “For what?” he whispered. For murder. “I didn’t kill anyone,” Tom said, a bit louder. He noticed the bartender looking at him. He tried to smile but the man looked away quickly. You didn’t kill anyone? What about Joe Williams? “That was an accident,” Tom said.

  “Look, man, is there a problem?” the bartender said from the end of the bar. He threw a white towel over his shoulder and looked to Tom like he was about to bring his brawny bartender/bouncer body down to him.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s been a rough week,” Tom said

  A rough week of murder, the voice said. “Fuck off,” Tom shouted.

  “Hey!” The bartender was suddenly in front of him. “I asked you if there was a problem here.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Tom said. “Could I get another beer?”

  “I think it’s time you hit the road,” the bartender said, placing both hands on the counter and flexing massive forearms. A tattoo obscured by thick black hair read: Arms of Harm. Tom frowned. Why would someone put such a permanent stupid saying on his or her body? Same reason someone would murder someone, the voice countered.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Tom said into the bartender’s face.

  “No, you didn’t,” the bartender said. Yes, you did, said the voice. “But you are disturbing some of the other patrons.”

  Disturbing them? Tom looked around. “There’s hardly anyone in here,” he said.

  “Look, do you want me to call the cops or are you just going to leave like I asked?” The bartender flexed.

  Oh, that would be great; the voice was now managing irony. “No, no, I’m leaving,” Tom said.

  The bartender suddenly looked past Tom’s shoulder, “Oh wow. You guys are fast. I didn’t even call.”

  Tom turned on his stool and tried to stand. The good-looking officer and his partner, Thorpe were there and they each put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and forced him back down into his seat. They each sat next to him at the bar.

  “Can I get you gentlemen something?” The bartender looked confused. “I just asked this fellow to leave, but if he’s a friend of yours, I can set you all up.”

  “It’s fine,” the good-looking officer said and waved his hand at the bartender. The man took the cue and disappeared to the end of the bar. He began drying glasses and putting them away, all the while glancing down the bar at Tom and the two police.

  “Were you done here, Tom?” the good-looking officer asked Tom.

  “I think so.” Tom hoped he had said it out loud.

  “Then would you mind coming for a drive with us?”

  “Where?”

  “I think you know where,” he said. “I have something I want to show you.”

  “Did you see the news, Tom?” Thorpe smiled as he guided Tom out of his seat and toward the front door.

  “Yes,” Tom said. “No, I mean, I watched the weather.”

  Both officers were lagging behind Tom a bit and when he turned they both put their hands on his back indicating they wanted him to walk in front. They left the bar and the officers steered him away from his own car towards the police car. They asked if he would mind sitting in the back. “It’s more comfortable,” the good-looking officer said. “rather than have three of us jammed in the front seat.”

  “Can you tell me what’s going on here?” Tom said as they closed the door, realizing there were no door handles on the inside of the police car. Already he felt a prisoner. Must not panic, he told himself and then heard the other voice in his head chuckling away as though he had told a great joke.

  “I appreciate your cooperation, Tom,” the good-looking officer said, “I am going to run you down to the station...”

  “We,” his partner suddenly interrupted.

  “What?” The good-looking officer sounded genuinely shocked.

  “We appreciate your cooperation and we are going to run you down to the detachment,” his partner said. “You always do that, it’s like I’m not even here sometimes, you just say ‘I’ this and ‘I’ that.”

  “Oh,” the good-looking officer said. “Wow, I didn’t realize.”

  “Well, you do,” his partner said and looked out the passenger window into the darkness, his chin drooping a bit.

  “Umm...” Tom ventured, “Are you putting me under arrest or something? I mean, both of you. Are both of you putting me under arrest?”

  “Thank you for that,” the sulking officer sulked.

  The good-looking officer cleared his throat and made his voice sound once more officious. “Nothing like that, Tom. I... we just want to take you to the detachment and have you look at some pictures, that’s all. Help me... help us out with one of our investigations.”

  “Can I call someone, then?” Tom asked tentatively, feeling out his situation.

  “Who would you call?” came the deadpan answer. Sure enough, something was going on. They knew. Holy shit, now what? Play stupid, the other voice told him and then mentioned that it probably wouldn’t be that hard for Tom, accented with another chuckle.

  “The thing is,” Tom said, trying to reduce suspicion, “I haven’t been home all weekend. In fact, I haven’t spoken to Eddy in two days and she’s probably worried.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Eddy is just hanging around,” the sulking cop said and then inexplicably burst into laughter. If it was an inside joke, it was only for him; Tom and the good-looking officer did not laugh.

  “Why would you say something like that?” the good-looking officer admonished his partner. “What the hell would you say something like that for?”

  “What?” his partner whined. “A joke.”

  “It’s not even goddamned funny.” Suddenly the good-looking officer was shouting. Tom cringed
in the back seat. “It’s not even funny. That’s terrible.”

  “Just a joke,” the partner complained and then turned to Tom in the back seat. “In different circumstances, wouldn’t you think that was funny?”

  “I don’t think I heard the joke,” Tom said.

  “You didn’t hear the joke?” The good-looking officer was now looking at Tom in the rear-view mirror. “Or you didn’t get the joke?”

  “Well, I heard what he said. Hanging around, sure. But I don’t understand why that’s a joke,” Tom answered truthfully.

  “OK,” the good-looking officer answered calmly and shot a warning glance at his partner who sulked out the side window. “It’s not a joke.”

  Tom rolled in the backseat with each turn. There were cages on each of the side windows and a cage separating Tom in the back from the driver and his partner in the front. There was no music radio, but there was a radio, squawking sometimes, making Tom uncomfortable in its codes. What the hell was a 10-46 or suspect is 10-45? What was he? Could it be that he was 10-46? The officers hadn’t mentioned anything into the mic yet. What did they know about him? They were suspicious of Joe’s death, that much was for certain. But they would have arrested him a long time ago. What pictures would they have? Did Belraj talk? No, he doubted that. Belraj seemed to be the type of man who would not go to the police first. Not with his mistrust of authority and government and history. The man felt the astronauts never went to the moon and the whole thing was a television studio creation. And never mind JFK. Jackie O shot him. She’s a quick woman, Belraj said. There is no way Belraj would tell what he had seen that night. Or thought he saw. Still, was it Belraj who gave the audio recordings to the police? They were edited, certainly, taken out of context. The more Tom reasoned the more he convinced himself that his actions, while not innocuous, were still ambiguous. Start asking for a lawyer right off the get go, Tom told himself. This is what lawyers get paid to do. Do not be intimidated by anything. Do not let anything slip. Answer questions with simple answers, if at all. If you call for a lawyer right away, and one actually comes, then let the lawyer do all the talking from then on. That was the way to do it.