Jackie's Week

by M. M. Wilshire

  "I just realized I have no way to pay Dr. Black."

  "I’m paying for it."

  "I can’t let you do that. You already do too much for me."

  "Shut up. I’m rich, remember? Until you are back on your feet, it’s my job to take care of you."

  "That makes me feel like some kind of a cripple."

  "You are a cripple."

  "Okay. Now we have established that, the cripple needs some toast or something. I can’t take my Ativan on an empty stomach."

  "No more Ativan. Not after last night. Not until you tell Dr. Black what happened."

  "Okay. A Bloody Mary, then. To calm my nerves."

  Donna was silent.

  "That was not a joke," Jackie said. "It’s either the Ativan, the vodka, or both, or I pull my hair out. I can feel the shakes already."

  Donna remained staring and the beginnings of a frown formed.

  "I’ll wait," Jackie said. "I know you’ve got a point coming."

  "You know, dear Sister, even a bird builds a nest before she lays an egg."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning it’s time you gave some thought to what you’re doing with your life."

  "You’re wrong," Jackie replied. "Because I’m not your ordinary bird. I’m beginning to discover I’m more like the ostrich. The ostrich doesn’t build anything. She runs way out in the Babylon desert, drops her payload on the sand and splits. That’s me."

  Donna frowned and dropped a couple of slices into the toaster. "I give up, Jackie. Eat some toast, have a Bloody Mary, take your pill, drink your coffee. Whatever. I wish you’d take a shower. You smell. But whatever. Do whatever you need to do. Meanwhile, I’m going to wake Bienenfeld up. Maybe he can help out with your car situation."

  "Boom," said Jackie. "There goes Babylon."

  Chapter 12

  "So what happened last night that’s so important I had to get up?" Bienenfeld said. He was sitting at the table with the two women. "The party with Kiefer and Siobhan ended late. I’m in no shape for an early morning. No shape at all. I think I’m still a little drunk."

  Clad in a pair of shiny gold pajamas, he was holding forth from the head of the kitchen table, slathering strawberry jam onto a piece of whole wheat toast. Bienenfeld, short and toad-like, with dark central Europeonistic features, a good head of hair only slightly gone to gray. Clearly a man who had no problem being married to a woman a foot taller than he was. He had made his bones at the helm of a private Beverly Hills bank catering to the entertainment industry, which continued to do well despite the failures of other banks. In America, when times got tough, the tough went to the movies, and those movies needed capital, and that capital provided Bienenfeld and his ilk with a handsome rate of return.

  "Ira Hirschel," Jackie said. "Don’t hog all the jam." Jackie was feeling somewhat more relaxed. The pill had kicked in, taking the edge off the anxiety.

  "I told you never to call me Ira Hirschel," he said. "Even my own mother wasn’t allowed to call me that. And you may note that she is dead."

  "Sorry, Bienenfeld."

  He passed the jam, which she ate from the jar with a spoon. "Jackie," he said, "now that you’re living in my house, you need to start showering. And you might consider having my housekeeper bury those sweats in the back yard, for pity’s sake. Wait. Don't. the coyotes would dig them up immediately."

  "Get off her back," Donna said. "You know she has issues."

  "I tried to shower," Jackie said. "But I just couldn’t. The best I could manage was a pirate bath."

  "What the hell is that," Bienenfeld said.

  "You know, a little splash under the armpits."

  The trio sat and sipped their coffee in silence, each wondering in turn what neuropsychiatric algorithm caused Jackie to fear showering and the wearing of anything but the same old sweat pants and shirt.

  "I got really wasted last night and wrote a ginormous check for a car," Jackie said. "A new crisis."

  "No, not a crisis, which is a catastrophic blend of several problems. Sounds more like a single problem," Bienenfeld remarked. "Or is there more?"

  "The car cost about 75 grand. She wrote a rubber check. She only has about 500 dollars left to her name," Donna said.

  Bienenfeld sighed and rubbed his temples. "Your first mistake was buying a car on your own. I could have gotten you any car you wanted below dealer cost. And money wouldn’t be a problem for you if you’d followed my advice six months ago and sued Gelson’s market on whose premises you were assaulted under the very nose of their so-called security guard. Hell, by now you’d be a millionaire."

  "Spoken like a lawyer," Donna said.

  "Which I am," Bienenfeld replied. "At least on paper."

  "Tell you what," Jackie replied forcefully. "Until yesterday, I just couldn’t face it. But I’m a new woman today. An angry woman. Today the idea looks good. You do the lawsuit for me."

  "Okay," Bienenfeld said. "I’ll call Century City and release a toxic cloud of threats upon Gelson’s Legal Department immediately."

  "Honey," Donna said. "Before you waft the toxic cloud, maybe you can have one of your people go down to the dealership in Van Nuys and fix things for Jackie. Make them tear up the contract."

  "No," he said. "What’s done is done. And Jackie needs a car. Donna, this morning, why don’t you drive Jackie over to our bank and have her talk to Marsha? Tell her I said Jackie needs about a hundred grand to tide her over."

  "We’re taking the limo," Donna said. "That way we can go to the bank and then fetch Jackie's new car and send the limo back for you, and I can stay with Jackie so she doesn’t have to be alone."

  "Excuse me? Did I hear you say a hundred grand?" Jackie said. "Did I?"

  "Why not? I make loans to lots of people down on their luck. One time I even loaned 50 grand to Mickey Cohen."

  "Mickey Cohen? The gangster?"

  "The kid from Boyle Heights—one and the same. Of course, he did threaten to kill me if I said no."

  "Did he pay you back?" Jackie asked.

  "Of course not. But then again, he didn’t kill me, either."

  "How can you make me a loan if I don’t even have a job?"

  "We have ways," Bienenfeld said. "You can pay the whole thing off after we kick ass when Gelson’s supermarket settles."

  "I need a tissue," Jackie said. "Your generosity, it’s ... it’s ..."

  "Jackie," Donna said, handing her a napkin, "I think you’ve reached a milestone here. As crazy as it sounds, you’re beginning to come alive."

  "I’d call hitting me up for a hundred grand a bit more than merely living again," Bienenfeld said.

  "Shut up, Bienenfeld," Donna said. "Jackie, you’re moving in with us."

  "I ... I’d like to. But is it okay with you, Bienenfeld?"

  "Consider yourself already moved in. I’ll send some people to your apartment to get the rest of your stuff, unless it's like the stuff you have on, in which case I will have it burned. Meanwhile, maybe you and Donna can see about getting you cleaned up. Maybe she can hold your hand while you're in the shower."

  "Okay."

  "If there is nothing else, I’m going back to bed. But I move we all go out to dinner tonight. Might as well try out Jackie’s new wheels."

  "I think I would like that," Jackie said. "But I can’t picture you in a Lexus. You’ve always been a limo man."

  "I can’t picture it either," he said. "No matter how much they advertise, the Lexus is a woman's car. But no matter."

  "Beanie," Donna said. "There is something else. Something serious else."

  "Shut up, Donna!" Jackie hissed.

  Donna shrugged. "Never mind, Beanie."

  "No," he said. "What is it, Donna?"

  "They caught the guy who did it. But he sent somebody to threaten Jackie. And Jackie's bodyguard killed him. We think."

  "Now that’s a horse of another feather," he said, sitting up.

  Jackie stared at him. "His name is Viktor Bout. The cops are holding him, but
if I don’t pick him out of the lineup, he’s going free in the next day or so. Donna was going to ask you to kill him," she said. "I asked her not to."

  Bienenfeld searched her eyes for a moment, his face unreadable. "For the time being," he finally said, "I’ll have somebody keep an eye on you, just for your safety."

  "Not necessary," Donna said. "The cops already have somebody watching us. And Jackie has her own bodyguard. Dr. Black's brother, Bobby."

  "No," he said. "The cops are idiots. And even Bobby, whoever he is, has to sleep sometime. I am going to have a guy I know keep an eye on you. I’ll go and arrange it right now and then I am going back to bed." With a great stretch, Bienenfeld got up and disappeared up the stairs.

  Jackie got up and began clearing the dishes. "He sure took that casually. Where’s the soap for the dishwasher?"

  "You can leave those," Donna said. "Juana will do them when she gets in."

  "Well, la-de-da, Charlotte," Jackie said.

  Chapter 13

  "That’s quite a scar over your right temple," Marsha said to Jackie.

  "This scar across my temple is where the bastard brained me," Jackie said.

  Marsha’s corner banking office resembled a cocktail lounge, with it’s polished black granite flooring, and orange-and-chrome decor and dim recessed-spots, which hid from view the multitude of financial sins committed daily by the bank’s primary clients—the mafia and their business managers to the entertainers.

  Marsha was an elegant, petite woman, with an incredibly thick mane of natural, long blonde hair, its bright sheen only slightly chemically assisted. Marsha was confidently decked out in a little black dress, as though it wasn’t really Tuesday morning, but, rather, the hard edge of Friday night.

  "I know a good plastic man when you’re ready," Marsha said.

  "Why do people who recommend their plastic surgeon to someone always say 'When you’re ready?'" I’ll tell you what I am ready for—I’m ready for a good stiff drink."

  "No problem, I’ll fix you one."

  "If it’s no trouble. Anything with vodka."

  "An early morning drink is a common request around here," Marsha said. She got up and opened the cabinet behind Jackie which contained a shelf of high quality booze and a small refrigerator stocked with the finer necessities of the drinking craft.

  "I’ve never had a drink in a bank before," Jackie said. "I guess I’ve never been important enough for any banker to offer me one."

  "You’re important to us," Marsha replied.

  "Mmm. This is one good vodka martini. I shouldn’t. In fact, I think I can trace most of my financial difficulties to a few shots of vodka last night."

  "Sounds more like a repressed soul making a bid for freedom if you ask me."

  "Last night my ‘bid for freedom’, or whatever you choose to call it, took the form of blacking out and buying a new car."

  "It wasn’t a blackout. You’re just in the process of discovering your true self. In a blackout, you know exactly what you are doing, but later the conscience represses it. Some people get beyond all that. I have. I do whatever I want and I don't need alcohol as an excuse."

  "I started seeing a shrink yesterday," Jackie replied. "To deal with my flashbacks following the attack. To deal with everything."

  A man poked his head in. "Jackie?" he said.

  She fought to get her breathing under control. The man was menacing by any standard. For one thing, he was the largest man she had ever seen. His refrigerator sized frame was draped with a cheap baggy tan suit. There was some sort of a satchel slung over his shoulder by a wide strap. Behind him, to her surprise, she spotted Bobby right behind him, the long braid over one shoulder. Bobby wore a short Dodger jacket. On his belt was a large hunting knife.

  "Yes?" she said, her voice squeaking.

  "My name is Nasturtium," he said. "I just met your man, Bobby. The both of us will be keeping an eye on you. As per my arrangement with Mr. Bienenfeld."

  "I have the police already doing that," she said.

  "As I said, we will be keeping an eye out, as per our arrangement with Mr. B." With a half smirk, he disappeared.

  "Oh my God," Jackie said. "He startled me when he popped through the door like that."

  "I’ve seen him around before," Marsha said. "He’s some kind of ex Navy Seal or something who got thrown in prison for war crimes. Now he works for my uncle Ernie." She opened the folder as though nothing had happened and reviewed the paperwork, extracted a single sheet, and pushed it towards Jackie while extending a gold ball-point pen. "Sign at the bottom and you’re all set."

  Jackie scrawled her signature across the bottom of the note. "You make it so easy."

  "We’re treating it as a commercial note to avoid bothersome disclosures and red tape. When Bienenfeld writes the loan summary, he’ll probably make up some B.S. about how the money’s being used for the option rights to a book you're writing or something." She placed the note in the folder and handed Jackie a supply of temporary checks. "Use these for now."

  "Do I get a receipt or anything?"

  "No es necesario."

  "I can’t believe I just got this loan. Are these funds from the government bailout?"

  Marsha smiled. "This is not the type of banking enterprise that needs a government bailout. We do very nicely in rain or shine. It’s all about relationships around here."

  "Thank you Marsha."

  "De nada. And I mean you are very welcome. Why don’t you give me a call sometime and we’ll have a drink together? Maybe we can explore that area of you which needs to function in a blackout."

  "I don’t get out much. I—oh hell, I might call you. I don’t know."

  "It’s just a drink. I’m not going to eat you alive. And not to change the subject, but I’m curious—what happened to the guy who did that to you?"

  "The cops grabbed him yesterday. But he’s getting out again if I don’t step forward and finger him. Now he is sending his friends after me."

  "There are other ways."

  "Like what?" Jackie asked.

  "Like other ways besides involving the police. Nasturtium and Bobby for example."

  "I’ll admit I’ve thought about it. But deep down I know I don’t have the guts. It’s really a police matter."

  "Of course," Marsha said. "A police matter. Now I want you to have a very nice day. And give Donna my best. Adios."

  Chapter 14

  Donna was waiting for Jackie in the limo with the sun roof slid back. Jackie climbed in and felt the welcome rush of cool morning air as the huge vehicle glided away from the curb.

  "I still don’t see our police escort," Donna said. "I bet he got lost in some sort of bureaucratic shuffle."

  "It doesn’t matter," Jackie said. "Bienenfeld’s cavalry just rode in. The guy is huge."

  "Well I am sorry it had to come to this," Donna replied. "So what did you think of Marsha?"

  "Meeting her was rather strange," Jackie said. "For one thing, I think she offered to help me nail Viktor Bout."

  "Bienenfeld’s having an affair with her."

  Jackie's brain came to full stop and then chugged forward cautiously at this new revelation. "Say again? Donna?" But there was no need to question the statement. The pain was written all over her sister’s face. "Donna, are you kidding me?"

  "Sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt that out."

  "Why didn’t you tell me before?"

  "Jackie, you have enough troubles without listening to mine. Young, isn’t she? And short, but she just escaped being pudgy and instead is impossibly curvy. Maybe my husband finally decided he was tired of me towering over him. You’d think she’d leave the old men alone. I wish she didn’t have such gorgeous hair. Marsha is the reason I first went to see Dr. Black. She talked me out of killing myself last year."

  "Donna. Oh no. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"

  "It’s a long story, but Marsha is the niece of Ernie Catalano."

  "One of Bienenfeld’s mafia guys?"


  "Catalano isn’t one of anybody's anythings. He's the enforcer for the Los Angeles family. Actually, he's the godfather, except they don't use that word anymore."

  "I thought the mafia had been destroyed by the FBI."

  "Don't make me laugh. Of course, they aren't what they used to be since the Russians and the Triads moved in. Not to mention the Latin Kings. But rest assured they are still here and doing what they do best. Catalano is the one who really controls the bank, although his name isn’t anywhere to be found. He hand-picked his board of directors from his collection of movie moguls and other perverts who owe him favors. Bienenfeld is just his window dressing, someone who can pass a background check and who looks good to the public while the rest of them launder the money they steal."

  "Donna, I don’t understand how you can live through each day knowing your husband is doing Marsha. How can you stand it? What does Bienenfeld have to say for himself?"

  "He thinks I don’t know. I’m scared to bring it up. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid of Marsha. I think she is dangerous. So, it’s just something I have to live with. What else am I going to do? What!"

  "You’ve been keeping a lot of secrets from me. But it’s my fault. I haven’t really been there for you lately. I feel like I’m just now returning after five years in the Foreign Legion."

  "Don’t worry about me. The main thing right now is getting you back on your feet."

  "Marsha invited me for a drink," Jackie said.

  "Jackie, stay away from Marsha. The mafia is real and it’s ugly. And as for her offer of help with your problems, you might be surprised what Marsha may have had in mind for your attacker."

  "Marsha’s only the enforcer's niece. It’s not like she can order a hit or anything."

  "Get real. Every mafia family is a nest of women and children who know everything, and not only that, they’re just as capable of lying, stealing and killing as the patriarch. They’re like rattlesnakes. The venom of the young is more deadly than that of the old. Why do you think I haven’t insisted Bienenfeld end his affair? The truth is, I’m scared stiff of these people. I don’t want to wind up in the La Brea tar pits. Or worse."