On the Edge (Independent Fiction)

Chapter One

Thirty years before, New York City, the office of the editor of a prominent arts magazine. An open magazine lies on a desk amid ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts and half finished drinks, all of them alcoholic. The magazine in question is the New Yorker, the arts section. Double paged picture, Joaquin standing with brush in hand, a dozen paintings on easels around him, like petals on a flower of swirling colours and bright blotches, paint thrown on canvas with a blasé almost approaching distain.

“Why should I give a shit, its art?” the headline reads in black font, a statement rather than a question, bold in type and content.

A man stands behind the desk looking at it, short and fat, large glasses below a sweaty brow and receding hairline. He exudes pomposity with his large chest stuck out in what he presumes is a look made to impress and intimidate despite braces over a shirt vaguely stained with gravy and gin.
‘I am the editor of the second largest culture magazine in America’ he is saying, his voice a fog horn that emits spittle and globules of food as he talks, ‘the second largest. The first largest, this shit’ he points in anger to the offending item, the open magazine with its picture of Joaquin, ‘is the bane of my existence, topping the ratings continuously, thwarting my every effort.

The truth, Shaw, the terrible truth behind what we journalists do, is that sex, drugs and fucking debauchery of every twisted kind, that muck sells like hotcakes. We might say we’re a culture journal, or whatever name the assholes up top choose to call us, but we’re really no different from any two dime magazine on the street with its shitty gossip and fabricated lies. The art is just to make it look like we sanitise the filth, like chlorine in a swimming pool, just because’ it’s there doesn’t mean nobody is peeing in the goddamn water.

Now, the problem is Shaw, that while I’ve accepted this my counterpart in the fucking New Yorker has too, and he had a fucking head start of a year. He’s got his people, your counterparts, out sniffing through the garbage and muck of every two-bit so called “famous person” in the art and literary world.’

He took a deep breath and glanced up with eyes like needles at the man standing on the other side of the desk, slouching slightly in a baggy suit too big for him. Jeff Shaw watched the senior editor, his boss of seven months and twelve days, with forlorn curiosity. Shaw was a man of stark contrast to the editor, or simply Ed as everyone in the office called him, more in touch with the times they were living in, and there for that very reason. His hair was left long and untrimmed so that it passed over his ears and reached the stiff collar of his pastel yellow shirt, flecks of premature grey, he was barely twenty-five, showing in the nest of unruly brown. His eyes were light blue and curious though his mouth was set in a look of impartiality. A pair of aviator sunglasses was shoved onto his shirt, held in place at the neck and a pack of Marlboros peaked out of the breast pocket. He stood still and unspeaking till the other man impatiently gave up waiting for a response and carried on, obviously loving the sound of his own voice,

‘Now Shaw, I’ll make it clear. I don’t care for your type, you modernists with the way your never content, always shaking things up. In my day it was different, but I’m no fucking idiot and if I can’t move with the times I can at least pay some smuck like you to do it for me, and make us all some fucking money. You see Shaw, celebrity is my fucking bread and butter, it’s the filler in the magazine and this guy’ he pointed one meaty finger at the picture of Joachim, ‘is pure gold dust, and taking off faster than Marilyn Monroe. His paintings are worth more than either you or me make in a year (but how much does that say) and every famous person knows him or spends their time pretending to… Over all this one fucking article has sold ten thousand more copies and its only been out two days…’

As he ranted on and on, one finger still tapping, Jeff glanced down and saw the mans fingernails were bitten to the tip and yellow from cigarettes, a repelling combination that made this repugnant dwarf more hideous.
‘So boss’ Jeff asked, his accent lazy but cultured in a East Coast America way, produced straight from prep-school and a overly decent university, ‘you got a job for me? I can do an piece on this Westfallen painter guy, if that’s what you want.’
‘A piece’ Ed spat, ‘what the fuck do you think we are, the New York fucking times? I don’t want you to sit down with this guy for twenty minutes so he can bullshit you a fake shit story and then fuck off to do some more blow and fuck some more cheap French hotel hookers, I want you to get in his life, and do it better than the competition.’
‘Sure’ Jeff nodded, smiling slightly at this news, ‘I can do this.’

‘Shaw’ Ed continued, raising one fat hand, ‘you’ve only got that stupid shit eating grin on your face because you don’t have a fucking idea about what I want you to do yet. You think its easy, do you in your idealistic fucking brain, living with some celebrity in his life of sex and drugs while we pay your way? Wise up son, its hard work, you’ve got to keep one eye open while you sleep. These people are animals; they’ll eat you alive if you give them cause. If that’s not enough, you won’t be the only one desperate enough to be doing this. The New Yorker has had a man trailing Joaquin Westfallen for six months, six months Shaw. He’s going to be in favour in Westfallen’s court, and he’s going to be hot on the story before you even arrive.’
‘The story’ Jeff asked, not smiling ‘what is the story boss?’
‘How the fuck should I know. This guys rich and famous, he spends more money than everyone else and paints pictures when he’s not snorting and fucking that are thought so good everyone wants one. All I give a shit about is that the fucking bastards in the New Yorker think he’s big enough to have one of their best young guys cover him, so I’m going to put you in there to make things a bit more even. Your young kid, but you’re a good journalist and I want you in on the action. Trust me kid, Shaw, there’s enough shit in this fucked up character’s life that you should have no problem digging up a nice pile of juicy dirt. Now, check with Janice in accounts for your passport and flight tickets and get the fuck out of my sight until you’ve got a story, that clear?’
‘Yes sir, crystal’ Jeff said deadpan, ‘I won’t let you down but shouldn’t I have more info, I mean I’ve never even really heard of this cat, and now you want me living with him and writing about him?’

‘If you want more information, take this’ Ed said, throwing the magazine into the air and watching with amusement as Shaw grimised and took a step back, fumbling as he caught the magazine. With that the embarrassed journalist about faced and headed to the door, Ed calling out after him,
‘You’ve got a month, starting from tomorrow morning. Know this though, whatever you do Shaw, don’t fucking fail me.’

*

‘So’ Janice, the secretary told him later, ‘Ed gave you a job abroad. That’s big for a guy like you, he must like you, if that man has the capacity to like anyone. Has he even told you where your going yet sweetie?’
‘No’ Jeff shook his head, ‘he didn’t say anything apart from this cat’s your guy, tail him and get a story.’
‘That’s Ed’s way Honey’ Janice smiled, all crooked teeth, black-dyed greying beehive and huge winged glasses, ‘he’s old school, from before the war. He learned fast, and expects you to do the same. Now, moving on sweetie,
I spoke to one of Mr. Westfallen’s assistants and arranged everything for you. you’ll be flying into Marrakesh, Morocco, get picked up at the airport and go straight to Mr. Westfallen’s house there, it’s where he’s spending the summer to paint the nice assistant man told me. Now, what about your finances. You’ve got a lot of money, you’ll need it if your with this crowd, so don’t worry too much about accounts but please, honey, keep receipts because it’s a pain in my ass if you don’t.’
She chuckled dirtily and Jeff stared back expressionlessly as she gathered herself and continued,
‘You’ll figure the rest out for yourself I think, oh and do watch out for the New Yorkers man, he’s good.’
‘Who is he’ Jeff asked, ‘just so I know what I’m up against.’
‘He’s a Brit I think, speaks with a very funny accent. Not too old, few years on you though, …twenty-nine…Twenty-eight, something like that. He’ll be the one in the tweed, so keep an eye out honey and you’ll be fine.’
‘Thanks Janice’ he smiled and kissed the woman on the cheek, ‘you’re a saint, I’ll get you something nice in Morocco.’
Bounding slightly with joy as he walked Jeff left the small office, swinging round the door and into the press pit where he kept his small nondescript desk, amid a hundred other similar ones, each with a journalist straining at a keyboard or writing reams of notes on pieces of paper.’
‘Hey Joey’ he shouted to a tired looking hack in shirtsleeves as he passed, ‘I got a job, I’m off to Marrakesh.’
‘You bastard’ the man said, ‘good luck, and have fun.’