Body Copy - Michael Craven [7]
He was getting excited about examining the specifics of the actual crime, the killing. Who found him, who did the police detectives talk to, what was the evidence? Tremaine’s brain was starting to send him questions, send him signals that it was cranking up, getting ready to start looking around. He sat there realizing if the day had gone as planned, he’d be getting on a plane in a little while. But it hadn’t gone as planned, so he was investigating a murder instead.
20
C H A P T E R 5
Tremaine walked over to his neighbor’s trailer. The guy who lived there was a twenty-five-year-old struggling actor named Marvin Kearns. Tremaine needed to tell Marvin, before the day got away from him, that he no longer needed a dog-sitter for Lyle.
Tremaine had come to know quite a bit about Marvin Kearns. For one reason, mainly: Marvin told him. Marvin had a staggering number of things to say. He was a walking diatribe. And his language, it was crazy, almost formal at times, full of dramatic phrasing and unusual word choice.
Contrived, maybe, but Tremaine didn’t care. He liked him, liked his company, admired his dedication to pursuing something he wanted to do.
Tremaine knocked on Marvin’s door.
Michael Craven
Marvin almost immediately opened the door and said,
“Donald Tremaine!”
Before Tremaine got to the matter at hand, he had to acknowledge two things. The first was Marvin’s new haircut, a totally shaved head. Marvin always wore his hair short—he was balding and liked to keep it tight—but now there wasn’t a speck of hair on his head. His large head.
Not particularly out of proportion, though. Even though he was only five-three, Marvin was a pretty big guy. All of his parts were big and bulky. Big arms, big legs, big chest, and a big bald head.
Marvin Kearns was a stump. And now, a bald stump.
Tremaine said, “So you went ahead and just took it all off, huh?”
“This morning. I got shaving cream. I got a razor. And I shaved it off. It’s a superior look. HAIR GETS IN MY
WAY! And I don’t have time to be in-between anymore. If you’re going to do it, do it. You don’t stick your toe in the pond, you jump in.”
“Okay,” Tremaine said.
“Okay!” Marvin repeated with glee. “That is such a large response.”
Marvin rated almost everything he came in contact with. If he liked something, it was either “superior” or
“large.” If he disliked it, it was “soft” or “insufficient.”
Most of the stuff that Tremaine did received high ratings from Marvin simply because Marvin had a very high opin-ion of Tremaine. Although Marvin was relatively young, he had a full knowledge and appreciation of Tremaine’s surfing career. He was one of those twenty-five-year-olds with a real appreciation for what came before. In fact, he liked 22
B O D Y C O P Y
what came before more than he liked what was around right now. He was like an old man in that way.
The second thing that Tremaine had to acknowledge was that Marvin was wearing fatigues.
“What’s your audition for?” Tremaine said.
“Extra in a war movie.”
“You’re showing up fully in character for a part as an extra? That’s not sticking your toe in, that’s jumping in.”
“Headfirst, Mr. Tremaine. Headfirst.”
“Marvin, I came by to tell you that I’m not going on my trip. I postponed it because I got a case.”
“Is that why the beautiful woman was at your place this morning?”
“What, are you spying on me?”
“Not you, her.”
“I can’t say I blame you.”
“I’m sorry I won’t be looking after Lyle. He is, as you know, a superior animal.”
“I’ll tell him you said that. He might not hear me, but I’ll tell him.”
“If you need any help on the case, just let me know.”
“I will.”
Marvin always asked Tremaine if he could help him on his cases. Tremaine didn’t mind his asking, but he’d never taken him up on it, not yet, despite many, many requests.
Tremaine said good-bye and started heading back to his trailer.
Then Marvin said, “Happy Birthday, Mr. Tremaine.”
“Thanks, Marvin,” Tremaine said, looking over his shoulder at the bald stump clad in camouflage.
23
Michael Craven
Eight hours later,