The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [63]
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I really want to get into video,” Jack says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Video, dude.”
“Yeah, that’s why Mark’s a really good contact.” There’s a huge crashing sound, then more smoke, then another ambulance.
“You mean Martin,” I say. “It would probably help out a lot, dude, if you get the names straight.”
“Yeah, Martin,” he says. “He’s a good contact.”
“Yeah, he’s a good contact,” I say slowly. I finish the cigarette and stand by the door, waiting for the sound of more gunfire. When it looks like nothing much is going to happen, Jack offers me a joint and I shake my head and say that I’ve got to drink some juice then get some more sleep. “There are two calico cats and a guinea pig I have never seen before upstairs in my bed.” Pause. “Plus I need to drink some more juice.”
“Yeah, sure, dude, I understand,” the doorman says, sparking up. “Juice, man. It’s good.”
The pot smells sweet and I kind of want to stay. Another shot, more screams, I head toward the elevator.
“Hey. I think maybe something’s gonna happen,” the door man says as I step into the elevator.
“What?” I ask, holding the doors open.
“Maybe something will happen,” the doorman says. standing in the lobby, smoking a joint, then at the Slurpee, and we both wait.
I get a confernce call from my mother, my father’s lawyer and someone from the studio he works at, at eleven the next morning. I listen, then tell them I’ll fly to Las Vegas today, and I hang up to make flight, reservations. Martin wakes up, looks over at me, yawning. I wonder where Christie is.
“Oh man,” Martin groans, stretching. “What time is it? what’s going on?”
“It’s eleven. My father died.”
A long pause.
“You … had a dad?” Martin asks.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?” Martin sits up, then lies back down, confused. “How, man?”
“Plane crash,” I say.
I take the pipe off the nightstand, look for a lighter.
“Are you serious?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay about it?” he asks. “Can you deal?”
“Yeah. I guess,” I say, inhaling.
“Wow,” he says. “I guess I’m sorry.” There’s a pause.
“Should I be?”
“Don’t,” I say, dialing information for LAX.
I walk up to the crash site with a Cessna 172 engine specialist who has to take photos of the condition of the engine for his company’s files and a ranger who acts as our guide up the mountain and was the first person to appear at the wreckage on Friday. I meet the two guys at my suite at the MGM Grand and we take a jeep up to about the midway point on the mountain. From there we walk a narrow path that is steep and covered with dead leaves. On the way up to the crash site I talk to the ranger, actually a young guy, maybe nineteen, about my age, good-looking. I ask the ranger what the body looked like when he found it.
“You really want to know?” the ranger asks, a smile appearing on his calm, square face.
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Well, this’ll sound awful funny but when I first saw it, I don’t know, it kind of lookes to me like a … like a miniature hundred-and-ten-pound Darth Vader.” he tells me, scratching his head.
“A what?” I ask.
“Yeah, like a Darth Vader. Like a little Darth Vader. You know. Darth Vader from Star Wars, right?” the ranger is saying with a faint accent I can’t place.
The ranger, who I guess I’m starting to flirt with, sort of, continues, The torso and head were completely skinless and they were sitting upright. What was left of the arm bones was resting on where the steering column should have been. None of the cabin was left. “The torso was just sitting there, right on the ground. It was like completely charred black, down to the bone in a lot of places.” The ranger stops walking and looks up at the mountain. “Yeah, it looked pretty bad but I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Like what?”
“I once saw a large group of black ants carry part of someone’s intestine to their queen.”
“That’s … impressive.”
“I’d say so.”
“What else?” I ask. “Darth Vader? Wow, man.”
The ranger looks at me and then at the engine specialist ahead of us and continues up the path. “You really interested?”
“I guess,” I say.
“That was about it,” the