by Paul Slatter
Sebastian left Chendrill looking puzzled. And Mazzi, who couldn’t help himself, had started to cry again. Leaving them both to it, Sebastian walked back to his huge office in the corner of the building with its big wooden beams and panelled windows and sat down.
He was a rich man, as rich as one can be if you looked at life knowing you have everything you need and want and could buy it all again a hundred times over with change. The advertising industry had been good to him. But all he really had now since his partner Alan had passed was Fluffy. They’d bought and enjoyed him as a pet when Alan was sick, and after he’d gone missing in the park, before Chendrill had found him, Sebastian had realized that if he didn’t get him back, he would be completely alone.
Sebastian had money. And in the autumn of his years, with no children to pass it on to, he was happy to spend it, and spend it well, having fun and creating as much happiness with it as he could for the only family he now had left—his friends. And it felt good.
******
Rann Singh, on the other hand, was starting to get annoyed, and wished he hadn’t paid out the five hundred bucks to the skinny white chick who needed her hair fixed and seen the photos of Patrick crying as one of the prettiest women he had ever seen slammed a huge dildo up his ass. Now he was in a right pickle. All he had to do was sit back and wait till his shipment of hard-on pills arrived and then he could say goodbye to all this blackmail shit. Say goodbye to it all once and for all and get on with his new life, make the necessary preparations for his grandfather’s retirement. “But no!” he shouted out loud to himself as he stood in the shower with the jets combing his long black hair that reached down past his backside.
“You had to start trouble didn’t you, you fucking idiot, you couldn’t leave it be. You had to start a war.”
And that’s what he’d done, as he had done so many times. Same as he had in London and as he had in Thailand only a month before. It was his way, his nature.
Now he was in one again. This time with a guy who couldn’t dress properly. He’d blown the deal with the realtor, gone to see Rasheed, crying to the man like a little baby, and caused more trouble with the guy’s friends, making them come around so as he had to throw shit at them, trying to teach them a lesson. And now this shit with the PI, and this friend of Chendrill’s, the gay guy with a filthy mouth. The prick insulting him like that, speaking about his future King, Charlie—disrespecting him same as the Irish cunt had with the King of Thailand, who looked like his grandfather.
He turned off the shower and, reaching for a towel, got out, rubbing himself down and wrapping his hair up.
Let it go, he thought, let it go. Concentrate on the future, and let it go, take a break until the tablets come. Turning, he looked at himself in the mirror, his hair all wrapped in a bun now on top of his head like a girl.
He’d let it go, he thought, he would forget it. It’s not worth the stress, just leave it be, put it to one side, put it to one side. Put it to one side, let it go Rann, he told himself again and again, let it go. Let it go Rann, let it fucking well go.
But he knew he couldn’t.
******
The first person he called was Malcolm Strong, sitting at home, not talking with his wife, when the phone rang. If there was anything good that had come out of him being blackmailed, then it was that he’d stopped getting his dick sucked by whores, for the moment anyhow, and he was trying to improve the relationship with his wife.
“Get me tax info on the PI Chendrill,” Rann had said without saying ‘hi’. Then he asked, “What’re you doing now?”
What’s it got to do with you, you piece of shit? Malcolm thought as he looked to his wife, wondering if she could hear and who she was texting.
“I’m at home.”
“You’re lucky you still got one mate, you can thank me for sorting that out, stopping you doing what you were doing.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. You piece of shit. Then he asked the guy who had been blackmailing him, “What do you want?”
“You fuckin deaf?”
“It’s too hard to do; I could lose my job. Then where would you be?” Malcolm said quietly as he watched his wife walk through to the bedroom. Then he carried on, “There’s only so much I can take, you know that.” And he wasn’t joking, he’d already been pulled in and asked why he’d been looking into Mazzi Hegan and had to talk his way quickly out of that one, saying he’d heard stuff and wanted to waste his time first before he sent it further up the line and wasted anyone else’s. And he was right too, as it was mostly nonsense. He said, “I can’t do it.”
“You can’t afford not to.”
“I’ll lose my job.”
“You’ll lose your job if they see what you been doing and you’ll lose your wife. She’ll be sucking someone else’s dick.”
Malcolm doubted that, he thought, that was what had gotten him into all the trouble in the first place.
“If I do it, I’ll lose my spot at the post office,” he said, knowing that would shut the piece of shit up, wondering for the millionth time whether he should go straight to the police. But as the guy who was trying to save him had said, if Malcolm did that, then he won’t be able to stop this born-again Christian from unleashing his revenge.
He took a deep breath. Fuck, he was in a mess. This guy, fucking with his life when all he wanted was to relax. He could ask a friend, he thought, to look or just make it up, say he has and this is what he’s found. Fuck it, that’s what he’d do. Make up some shit about the guy and let him try to deny it, take some of the heat off him. So, he said, “I’ll look tomorrow.” But he wouldn’t he’d do nothing of the sort, he thought, except lie.
Chapter Nineteen
Dan sat on the end of his bed and wondered who the guy in the linen suit was outside smiling and talking to his mum. Maybe she’d got pissy over Chendrill thumping him and this was the next one coming around. With any luck, the guy would own a burger franchise. Then he saw the man looking at him through the window from the road side smiling, giving him the thumbs up. Fuck he looked like that guy on the back of the buses, but different. Next thing, he was down in Dan’s room with his arm around him with one of Dan’s socks stuck to his foot, saying, “You are a good-looking young man, Daniel. I can tell you that.”
So, they keep saying, Dan thought, wondering if the guy was gay.
“Hey, you been fighting, you a boxer, are you?” the man was saying now, the smile still there etched on, but not false.
Dan said, “Mum’s guy thumped me out because I borrowed the car.”
Then the guy said, “My name’s Patrick.”
Fuck, he is the guy on the buses, Dan thought, then said, “We selling our house? Is that what it is?”
And not missing a beat, Patrick said back with a smile, “No Dan, we’re selling you. That’s what we’re doing.”
******
They sat in the kitchen, Dan eating, his mother Tricia sitting at the table. Patrick sitting holding court working out how much he could make if he offered them 1.3 million for the place right now and then did a back-end deal on a rack of town homes he’d have his developer buddy step in and throw up a month later. Then he looked back to Tricia, as he sipped his tea and looked at her tight legs sticking out from under the table. She was hot. Putting down his tea, he said, “You don’t know how big your son’s become.” She didn’t, he was right, she’d seen the posters scattered about the place and it had taken her an hour to realize that it was Dan.
She said, “I saw the posters, yes. Chuck told me they were worldwide.”
Chuck, Patrick thought, fucking Chendrill was already slipping in there, had to be, the way she’d said his name like they were an item. So, he said, “We talking about that big guy here, are we?”
“Yes, Chuck he makes sure Dan keeps out of trouble.”
Patrick looked to her son, the big shiner on his eye right there for the world to see. Then heard his mother say, “Chuck did that.”
Fuck me, Patrick
thought, Chendrill coming round here, sleeping with mum and thumping out the talent. It wasn’t good. Still smiling, he said, “Well it looks good on you buddy—makes you look like a brute, like a guy who knows how to stick up for himself, like a real man should.”
Stick up for myself? Dan thought. First worked over by a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound gay guy with his man bag, then sucker punched by my mum’s boyfriend.
“But you’re not to go worrying about any of this,” Patrick said. “This is all my problem now.”
It is? How? How is it your problem that I got worked over because basically I was being a prick, Dan thought as he pulled out another four slices of pizza with smoked salmon and placed them on top of each other, making two sandwiches. And before he could speak, Patrick had answered his question.
“Because, young man, you need representation and Sebastian has asked me very nicely to do so. So, I am.”
And Dan asked straight back, “Who else you look after then?”
And smiling, Patrick lied, “Marsha and Samson and Samson’s girl Crazy Sue—she’s so talented, they’re clients, we were together yesterday down in L.A. talking about a movie deal with Tom Cruise—but Buffy takes care of them. You’ll be my main concern.”
Buffy, Dan thought as he stuffed so much of the first pizza sandwich into his mouth that it made his eye hurt. He remembered the big chick at the Sutton the night Marsha had kicked him out just because he was trying not to come and got her name wrong. He’d seen her in the lobby talking with some people and remembered her looking at him funny and realized he wasn’t wearing his trousers. He said, “Yeah I met Buffy.”
She’d taken him to the concierge who’d gotten him a dressing gown whilst she went up to Marsha’s suite and retrieved Dan’s clothes.
“She’s really good. Looks after people.”
And looking straight at Dan’s mum, Patrick said, “She’s the best out there, she really is, she works so hard, the only time she gets a good night’s sleep these days is on one of those executive jet’s bed when she’s off to work in Europe.”
******
Chendrill stood staring at the blue Aston Martin sitting pretty in the showroom off Burrard Street.
“It’s second-hand, I got a good deal and you’ll need a run around,” Sebastian had said as though he was talking about a bicycle. He’d called just after Chendrill had left Slave.
“And like you said, Dan needs to look good; besides Mazzi needs his car back. I’ve teased him long enough.”
He opened the door, feeling it’s weight, the wood on the inside varnished and perfect, the leather still like new.
“It’s just a year old,” he heard the salesman say to him from behind.
Sebastian struck a good deal. Chendrill got in, gripping the wooden steering wheel, the seat hard but luxurious, feeling as though it had been custom built just for him. Fuck, he thought, I give his top model a smack in the chops and he orders me an Aston.
“I’ll have it ready for you this afternoon, sir,” said the guy leaning in, trying to sound English with his shoes perfectly shined and a smile.
Chendrill asked, “How much did he pay?”
“I’m not at liberty to comment, sir. But we sold a similar model some time back for around one hundred and eighty.”
Jesus Christ, Chendrill thought, one-hundred-and-eighty grand or there about on a run around.
“Do you need a metal key to start it or has it got one of those electronic devices that are being used these days.”
And the salesman replied, “Just the old-fashioned way with this model, sir, it has a very sophisticated alarm system though.
So did the Ferrari, Chendrill thought, but no key—just a sensor fitted because Mazzi kept getting the key stuck—so maybe Dan, the prick, will keep his hands off this one, unless he wants his other eye bruised.
He dropped the Ferrari off and walked back to the showroom and, shaking hands with the salesman, grabbed the car, adjusted the seat, and began to drive along the road. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Sebastian with pure joy in his voice asking, “How does it feel?”
Different, he thought, less throaty than the Ferrari, but a little more refined.
“It’s a nice car. Thank you, Sebastian. You should be the one driving it, not me.”
“I’ve got my bicycle and Fluffy fits nicely in the little basket at the front,” Sebastian replied without trying to be clever.
He did have it, it was all he needed around town, except when it was raining—it was a nice Peugeot three speed, the same as he used to have when he was a kid, until it got stolen from outside the chip shop. Now, though, he had another, exactly the same, custom made, and delivered all the way from France, with a soft saddle and a little basket up front made especially for the dog.
“Anyway, I’ll need you to pick up a few plates for me. I don’t know your source but I’m glad you’ve got one.”
Then Chendrill asked, “Why, whose have you smashed now?” And the moment he said it, he knew it was his. And as stupid as Sebastian’s little ways were, the feeling of total shame came over him. So, he said, “Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”
Sebastian stayed silent for a moment. Then said, “If I was angry with you I wouldn’t have gotten you the Aston, would I, Chuck?”
He was right, he would have waited, which was probably what he did do. Then Sebastian asked, “Are you coming out tonight? Everyone’s invited, Dan included, Marsha and Buffy are coming up and a couple of others Patrick’s invited.”
“Patrick?”
“Yes, he’s been to Hollywood.”
******
They all met at the Fish House in the center of Stanley park and sat around a huge table set aside from everyone else. Marsha making a late appearance with Buffy and a bodyguard following behind, picked up by Patrick from an agency in town. Dan sat on the other side of the table with a black eye, not giving a shit. Mazzi hating it all because of Chendrill’s shirt. Patrick holding court, smiling and dazzling the place with his charm. Sebastian just happy sitting in amongst them all, his bicycle parked and locked up alongside the Ferrari that could park itself and the Aston Martin that just looked cool. Mazzi turned to him, saying, “It’s never going to work.”
Sebastian looked to Patrick oozing personality, “Give him time.” Mazzi looked to Patrick with his arm around that big slut Marsha, who smelled of fish, and then turned back to Sebastian. “I’m not talking about him. As long as he still had a tongue, he could go anywhere and do anything. I’m talking about Chendrill and the Aston.”
“What about him now?’
“You got it all wrong, Sebastian. Look at him—you had it right with the Ferrari, but you’ve got it wrong with the Aston, look at his shirt, he’s not James Bond.”
Sebastian looked over, noticing Chendrill staring at Marsha’s breasts, and looked at his shirt for the fiftieth time. Mazzi was right, as always, he’d seen it as soon as he’d pulled up in the car—his shirt a red Hawaiian, the car a deep navy blue.
“He should be wearing a tux,” Mazzi said, and he wasn’t wrong. Then Mazzi said, “we should have had this at your place, I knew it. People are going to talk.”
Sebastian laughed, Mazzi getting it right, but now, as always, taking it too far. The next thing he’d be saying was that they should cancel the evening.
“Maybe one of us should go ill and blow this off,” Mazzi said running both hands along his purple colored silk trousers that looked cool.
“Don’t be silly Mazzi,” Sebastian said as Mazzi carried on regardless.
“We’ve got that slut here, and Dan now, and you know the trouble he causes. There’ll be Paps waiting at the end of the evening and if someone takes a shot of your big guy getting in the car, then where will we be?”
“They’ll be here Mazzi. Don’t think for a moment they won’t. I’m quite sure that’s why we’re here. I wouldn’t doubt it if Patrick hasn’t called them himself.”
Mazzi rubbed his hand through his highlights
, took a swig of his white wine, and said quietly to himself, “Jesus!”
Sebastian laughed as Mazzi looked at him as serious as he could ever be.
“I’ve gone and got myself involved in a freak show,” Mazzi said, as he felt Sebastian lean in and say, “Of your making, ultimately Mazzi. Sit back and enjoy the evening. Give Patrick the space he needs and in the end, we’ll both reap the benefits. Believe me.”
The night passed and as predicted, the paparazzi began to gather outside. Dan sitting there not talking and eating, his eye still hurting. Marsha trying to look cool and staring at Dan. Mazzi forgetting about the shirt, drunk now on white wine and feeling playful, telling Patrick how he’s seen the prints of him and that pretty girl and knows how he likes it. Chendrill listening and looking to Sebastian raising his eyebrows now and again, being a friend, and then through the window to the side as the small crowd that was gathering stood on tip toes trying to grab whatever glimpse they could of Marshaa and the new kid on the block with the swollen eye. Then in amongst them, he saw Rann standing there in his turban looking straight at him.
Fuck, that was all he needed, he thought. Getting a nice night out and now the chances were that he was going to have to deal with this idiot again. The guy was becoming a pain.
******
He stared at him through the window as Rann stared back, challenging him. The guy was a nut, he thought. What was it with him? He’d tried it on with blackmail and this time it hadn’t worked, but that was life when you were self-employed, sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. Slowly he got up, excused himself, and headed for the toilet. He made his way through the kitchen and let himself out the back door, down the steps, onto the paving slabs that lined the building, and then out of nowhere he felt the East Indian’s foot slam itself hard into his throat, knocking him to the ground and sending another electric shock of pain through his body from the impact to his broken ribs.