Body Copy - Michael Craven [56]
Tyler, on the ground, desperation ravaging his face, said, “Nothing. Nothing about Roger Gale. He was a rival in business. I had nothing to do with his murder. Oh, God.
I’m seeing black spots.”
Good, Tremaine thought.
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Marvin clutched the gun, so Tyler would see him, and said, “I will repeat the question once. What do you know about the murder of Roger Gale?”
Tears welled up in Tyler’s eyes. He struggled to breathe and said, “I don’t know anything about the murder. I don’t.”
Tyler turned to Tremaine. “Please, tell him not to kill me. I don’t know how or why Roger Gale was killed.”
Tyler was on all fours, sweating, stammering, slobber-ing.
Tremaine said, “What do you know about Roger Gale?
Anything. What do you know that I don’t know?”
Tyler looked up at Tremaine. He had an almost puppy-dog expression in his eyes, on all fours like he was, next to some Dumpsters and bleak, gray cement walls. Thinking, for sure, what a terrible place to die.
“I used to follow him around,” Tyler said.
With a motion of the hand, Tremaine gestured to Marvin to back off. Marvin backed up and put the gun away.
Tremaine looked at Tyler on the ground, looked right into Tyler’s eyes, and said, “Follow him? What do you mean?”
“I got a little obsessed with the guy, all right? A lot obsessed, really. When you work in my business, certain people start to get worshipped, he was one of them.
I started to idolize him, think about him all the time. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And then, I wanted to know what he did and where he was all the time.”
Tyler began to get his breath back. He crawled over to one of the walls and rested his back against it, regaining his composure a bit.
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“For a while,” Tyler said, “he never went anywhere interesting. He’d go to work, then go home, just like the rest of the world.”
Tyler had calmed down. Having been pressed to the edge of death, he was able to speak with clarity and hon-esty.
“But I followed him anyway. I’d sit there, outside his office. It was pathetic. Then once, on the weekend, I saw him drive out of his house alone and go downtown. And I tailed him, of course. He went to this karate studio. It was one of those studios that sits in, like, a strip mall. A strange little place. I was a couple blocks away, parked, but I saw him go in.”
Tremaine said, “What, he was taking karate lessons?”
“That’s what I thought. But when he walked in, he wasn’t wearing a karate uniform. And there were no other students showing up. I guess he could have changed and showered in there, and taken a private lesson or something, but this place was a little dump. It seemed weird. So the next weekend, I went down to the studio by myself, just to check it out. I made sure to go at the same time he had gone. This time I parked in the strip mall. I walked in, and there was no one around. Then, this guy comes up to me, the owner I guess, and says, ‘Can I help you?’ I said, ‘I hope so.’ Then he said, ‘Do you want a karate lesson?’ And I said, ‘No.’ And he said, ‘Then what do you want?’ And I just looked at him. And he looked at me. Then he said, ‘Do you have a card?’ And I gave him one. And he called my office, talked to my assistant and didn’t leave a message. I figured later he was checking to see if I was a cop. Then he said, ‘The show’s five hundred bucks.’ I paid him and he 178
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took me into a room in the back. I sat down, the room was pretty nice, and there was a stage in front of the chair I was in. A few minutes later, a stripper walked in and started to dance, taking off her clothes, writhing around, the whole