Glamorama

Glamorama Page 184

"When was that?" Palakon asks. "Exactly."

"Maybe two weeks..." Pause. "Maybe... it could be four?"

Crater and Delta glance at each other.

"I guess, maybe... I don't really know... I'm just not sure... I'm not good with dates."

I try to smile, which just causes the men in the room to flinch, obviously unimpressed with the performance so far.

"I'm sorry...," I mutter. "I'm sorry..."

Somewhere a fly buzzes loudly. I try to relax but it's not happening.

"We want you to verify who lives in the house with you," Palakon says.

"It's a... set," I'm saying. "It's a set."

Palakon, Delta, Crater-they all stare at me blankly.

"Yes. Okay." I keep crossing then recrossing my legs, shivering. "Yes. The house. Yes."

Palakon reads from a page in his folder. "Jamie Fields, Bobby Hughes, Tammy Devol, Bentley Harrolds, Bruce Rhinebeck-"

I cut him off. "Bruce Rhinebeck is dead."

A professional silence. Crater looks over at Delta, and Delta, without returning eye contact and staring straight ahead, just nods.

Palakon finally asks, "You can verify this?"

"Yes, yes," I mutter. "He's dead."

Palakon turns a page over, makes a note with his pen, then asks, "Is Bertrand Ripleis also staying with you?"

"Bertrand?" I ask. "No, he's not staying in the house. No."

"Are you sure of this?" Palakon asks.

"Yes, yes," I'm saying. "I'm sure. I went to Camden with him, so I know who he is. I'd know if he was staying in the house." I'm realizing at the instant I say this that I probably would not know, that it would be easy not to know if Bertrand Ripleis was living in the house in the 5th or the 16th with us, because of how vast it is and how it keeps changing and how it seems new rooms are being built every day.

Palakon leans in and hands me a photograph.

"Is this Bertrand Ripleis?" he asks.

It could be an Armani ad shot by Herb Ritts-a desert landscape, Bertrand's handsome face scowling seductively, jaw clenched and lips casually pursed, small sunglasses giving off a skull effect. But he's exiting a van, he doesn't realize this picture is being shot from a vantage point far away, he's holding a Skorpion machine pistol, he's wearing a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt.

"Yeah, that's him," I say blankly, handing Palakon back the photo. "But he doesn't live in the house."

"Does anyone in the house have contact with Bertrand Ripleis?" Crater asks.

"Yes," I say. "I think they all do."

"Do you, Mr. Ward?" Palakon asks.

"Yes... I said I think they all do."

"No," Palakon says. "Do you have contact with Bertrand?"

"Oh," I say. "No, no. I don't."

Scribbling, a long silence, more scribbling.

I glance over at the Japanese man, staring at me, motionless.

Palakon leans in and hands over another photo, startling me.

It's a head shot of Sam Ho, with Asian script running along the bottom of the photograph.

"Do you recognize this person?" Palakon asks.

"Yeah, that's Sam Ho," I say, starting to cry. My head drops forward and I'm looking at my feet, convulsing, gasping out sobs.

Papers are shuffled, extraneous sound caused by embarrassment.

I take in a deep breath and try to pull myself together, but after I say "Bruce Rhinebeck and Bobby Hughes tortured and killed him in London a month ago" I start crying again. At least a minute passes before the crying subsides. I swallow, clearing my throat. Russell leans over, offers a Kleenex. I blow my nose, mumble, "I'm sorry."

"Believe me, Mr. Ward, we don't like to see you this distraught," Palakon says. "Are you okay? Can you continue?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I say, clearing my throat again, wiping my face.

Palakon leans in and hands me another photo.

Sam Ho is standing on a wide expanse of sand, what looks like South Beach stretching out behind him, and he's with Mariah Carey and Dave Grohl and they're listening intently to something k.d. lang is telling them. In the background people set up lights, hold plates of food, seem posed, talk guardedly into cell phones.

"Yeah, yeah, that's him too," I say, blowing my nose again.

Crater, Delta and Palakon all share contemplative glances, then fix their attention back on me.

I'm staring over at the Japanese man when Palakon says, "This picture of Sam Ho was taken in Miami." He pauses.