VACANCY & ARIEL

Cliff has blown up a balloon, peed in a cup, given his DNA. He’s fatigued, and now he’s fed up with Ashford’s impersonation of a homicide detective. His take on the man is that while he may drink his whiskey neat and smoke cigars (their stale, pungent stench hangs about him, heavy as the scent of wet dog) and do all manner of grown-up things, Ashford remains the same fifteen-year-old punk who, drunk on Orbit Beer (six bucks a case), helped him trash the junior class float the night before homecoming, the sort of guy no one remembers at class reunions, whose one notable characteristic was a talent for mind-fucking, who has spent his entire adult life exacting a petty revenge on the world for his various failures, failures that continue to this day, failures with women (no wedding ring), career, self-image…Another loser. There’s nothing remarkable about that. It is, as far as Cliff can tell, a world of six billion losers. Six billion and one if you’re counting God. But Ashford’s incarnation of the classic loser is so seedy and thin-souled, Cliff is having trouble holding his temper.

“I want to call my lawyer,” he says.

Ashford adopts a knowing look. “You think you need one?”

“Damn right I do! You’re going to pick away at me all day, because this doesn’t have anything to do with my guilt or innocence. This is all about high school.”

Ashford grunts, as though disgusted. “You’re a real asshole! A fucking egomaniac. We got a woman missing, maybe dead, and it’s all about high school.” He pulls back a chair and sits facing Cliff. “Let’s say I believe someone’s trying to set you up.”

“The Palaniappans. It has to be them! They’re the only ones who know about the movie.”

“The movie. Right.” Ashford takes a notebook from his inside breast pocket and flips through it. “Sword Of The Black Demon.” He gives the title a sardonic reading, closes the notebook. “So you had one conversation with the Planappans…”

“Palaniappans!”

“Whatever. You had the one conversation and now you think they’re out to get you, because the daughter looks like a woman you caught the clap from back in the day.”

“It wasn’t the clap, it was some kind of…I don’t know. Some kind of Filipino gunge. And that’s not why they’re doing this. It’s because, I think, I started sniffing around, trying to figure out what’s going on with Bungalow eleven.”

Ashford grunts again, this time in amusement. “Man, I can’t wait to get your drug screen back.”

“You’re going to be disappointed,” Cliff says. “I’m not high, I’m not drunk. I’m not even fucking dizzy.”

Ashford attempts to stare him down, doubtless seeking to find a chink in the armor. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “So tell me again what happened after you and Marley left the Surfside.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You go that way, you’re not doing yourself any good.”

“How much good am I doing myself sitting here, letting you nitpick my answers, trying to find inconsistencies that don’t exist? Fuck you, Ashford. I want a lawyer.”

Ashford turtles his neck, glowers at Cliff and says, “You think you’re back in Hollywood? The cops out there, they let you talk to them that way?”

Cliff gays up his delivery. “They’re lovely people. The LAPD is renowned for its hospitality. As for where I think I am, I trust I’m among guardians of the public safety.”

Ashford’s breathing heavies and Cliff, interpreting this as a sign of extreme anger, says, “Look, man. I know what I told you sounds freaky, but you’re not even giving it a chance. You’ve made up your mind that I did something to Marley, and nothing I say’s going to talk you out of it. Lawyering up’s my only option.”

Ashford settles back in his chair, calmer now. “All right. I’ll listen. What do you think I should do about the Palnappians?”

“That’s Palaniappans.”

Ashford shrugs.

“If it were me,” says Cliff, “I’d have a look round Bungalow Eleven. I’d ask some questions, find out what’s happening in there.”

“What do you think is happening?”

“Jesus Christ!” Cliff throws up his hands in frustration, and closes his eyes.

“Seriously,” says Ashford. “I want to know, because from what you’ve told me, I don’t have a clue.”

“I don’t know, okay?” says Cliff. “But I don’t think it’s anything good.”

“Do you allow for the possibility that nothing’s going on? That given everything you’ve said, the multiple occupancies, the sign, the vehicles disappearing…” Ashford pauses. “Can you remember any of the vehicles that disappeared? The makes and models?”

“I’m not sure they’ve disappeared. I haven’t been able to check. But if not, they must be piling up back there. But yeah, I remember most of them.”

Ashford tears a clean page from his notebook, shoves it and a pen across the table. “Write them down. The model, the color…the year if you know it.”

Cliff scribbles a list, considers it, makes an addition, then passes the sheet of paper to Ashford, who looks it over.

“This is a pretty precise list,” he says.

“It’s the job. I tend to notice what people drive.”