Kissing Persuasive Lips

by Dale Wiley

  * * *

  Their hospital visit took hours, despite the hundreds slipped in the hands of nurses and orderlies. After he had flipped through his phone for the umpteenth time, he got the phone call he was waiting for from Charles. He told Mick that he had gotten him a meeting with the rising star of the West Coast office of Omega, a young woman named Kinley Baron.

  “Kinley? What is she? Twelve?”

  Charles laughed, expecting the question. “Everyone asks that. She’s probably thirty. But man. She is a mover in the organization. She’ll get five more years in and be a serious candidate for going all the way to the top.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “That good. That whatever. That pretty. That smart. That ambitious. She’s the ‘it’ girl.”

  Mick put his troubles aside for a minute.

  “That pretty?”

  “Like an angel’s dream. If you bed this one, you have to tell at least some dirt. What am I saying. When you bed this one.”

  Mick managed a smile. “Challenge accepted.”

  She could see him the next day. That sounded perfect.

  * * *

  The sandy yellow sun had started to fade, and by the time he was told they could go, with Danielle wearing a bandage which clearly covered a nasty-looking scar, the sun had escaped and a dreamy darkness ascended. The heat had left with the last of the sun, and he stood on a small balcony, feeling small, wondering what to do.

  He thought about a half a dozen strategies, but in the end, he decided to bite the bullet. Mick called Spider, and when he arrived, Mick had him take Danielle and go out the back door, while, Mick gave the paparazzi a show. They really didn’t know why they had been called, so Mick walked through the clicks and flashed and told everyone he was visiting a friend, they seemed to bite on the idea. Several asked about the bruising, as anyone with eyes would. He told them it was not about his injuries. Everyone probably assumed it was a lady friend, and Mick knew eventually someone would put it together, especially since he had paid and was going to pay all of Danielle’s bills. Those records were protected by law, but money would change hands. It would come out eventually. Getting Danielle out of the frame made it considerably better. There would be rumors that Mick had gotten violent with a woman, but as long as it didn’t turn into a full-blown story he didn’t care. He had already nearly being killed for being a house stealer. Maybe he could add woman slasher. He was tired of playing all of these image games.

  Mick slowly made his way back to his new fire red toy. That would be an extra story item for the low-rent media. He fired up the orchestra of sounds that the Ferrari made and gunned it out of the spot and out onto the boulevard. He headed west on Santa Monica, hoping to catch the 405 and run it up. It took about five minutes to get there, and Mick was ready.

  Mick cranked up Bowie’s version of The Kinks’ “Where Have All The Good Times Gone” and put it on repeat. It seemed like the perfect song for his mood: Bowie’s silver-sounding voice and the lyrics, which seemed to be taken straight from his life: “Wondering if I’ve done wrong/Will this depression last for long?” The catch in Bowie’s voice always got him: “Won’t you tell me/Where have all the good times gone?”

  Then it got worse: “Once we had an easy ride and always felt the same/Time was on our side and we had everything to gain” He couldn’t hear those words without thinking about Mandy. He should pick any other song in the entire western canon but he couldn’t do it: He had to listen. Where had all the good times gone?

  The Ferrari jumped upon the slightest nudge of his right foot, and traffic had cleared enough that he had some room. He didn’t have anywhere to go, but that didn’t stop him. Mick did this many nights. He did his best thinking here in the car, where he would often escape the world and get his thoughts straight.

  He could drive himself right off a cliff. He had thought about it more than once. Kick the Ferrari up to 150, undo his seatbelt and watch the show. But he knew he wouldn’t do that. He could be reckless and dangerous, but he wasn’t suicidal. He would play by the rules no matter how much each day hurt. And today. His own stupid frivolity had cost that girl dearly. Mick thought about what kind of surgery she would need. He knew he wanted to pay for it. If he wasn’t around, he knew, everyone would fuck that up too, and she would be left scarred, literally, by one more bad Mick Lord decision. He felt like a heel. Tomorrow, if she would let him, he would go and make sure Alfred got what he deserved.

  To his right he could look down and see the gleaming kingdom of lights that lay below. He would help Danielle get some justice. He would learn what the hell his fake signature meant. He had to. That was enough to make even Mick Lord feel a little better.

  * * *

  When his red rocket ship regained the atmosphere, Mick headed east on Sunset and landed at the Chateau Marmont. Truth be told, that stretch of Sunset Strip, including The Standard and The Chateau and on up the hill to the Rainbow and the Roxy, was about his favorite part of LA. The beaches were great, Beverly Hills was to die for, but there was something about that unvarnished, unreconstructed part of the hell-raising days of LA that really appeared to him.

  People said it looked like a castle. It didn’t. But it had style and character from another era, and he felt it would last forever. No one would build a building like this now, and that was the greatest thing about it. It was old and quaint and mysterious in a way that most of this town was not. He strolled and nodded along the way to the bar, past the tables, each one illuminated, and finally sat at the bar. The day hung on his shoulders. It weighed him down. He needed release. He knew that meant alcohol and women. He wanted to be happy without either. That wasn’t really an option right now.

  The bartender, a woman about twenty-five with a full sleeve of excellent Japanese tattoo work, made eye contact. She clearly knew who he was, although he hadn’t seen her before. He would have remembered. She had short, black hair cut in a severe bob, and even the gauges in her ears worked. Her lipstick was deathly red, and she had learned how to bite her bottom lip long ago for just the right effect. He ordered a shot of Jameson’s and a vodka rocks. She rolled her eyes and got it for him. He had clearly violated some hipster bartending rule that he knew nothing about. He didn’t care. She got a red card on that one gesture. Mick turned to see that two very attractive Asian ladies had moved down the bar from him. One had a short, light-pink dress. He was sure there was some other color to call it. It was pink to him. The southern California breezes had picked up since the sun went down, and she had to be cold. Didn’t matter. They worried about the look. Everyone in LA lived for the look. Her friend was wearing a white jumper which didn’t look any warmer. They could have been models. He expected they spoke broken English, but he didn’t have a reason for this. They could have been from Santa Barbara for all he knew. They didn’t roll their eyes at him. They knew who he was. Mick smiled and offered them a drink. One or both of them would do just fine if nothing else came along.

  “Hello ladies,” he said, feeling the shame and lust congregate at the same time. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  * * *

  Mick snuck out of the girls’ hotel room about three, but left the Ferrari in valet at the Chateau, not wanting to take any chances given his level of intoxication. The Chateau took him back to L’Ermitage, where he fell into his bed and the uneven, fitful sleep that alcohol induces. He woke a couple of times almost feeling like he wasn’t breathing, and it was lucky for him there was no such thing as work, because by morning he was in no condition to do it.

  He called the front desk and told them he was going to the pool. This was a part of his routine after especially bad nights, and he was met on his way up by Henrik, the hotel employee he liked best. He slipped him a hundred bucks and let him do his thing, open the cabana, bring him fruit and juices. All Mick could muster was finding KCRW on the radio and not throwing up. They were still playing news on KCRW, and it wasn’t Morning Becomes Eclectic time, his favorite radio show in the entire
world. Nic Harcourt, the host of the show, found the most far flung music, stuff that even a real music fan hadn’t heard. He tuned in every chance he got, and he was always surprised and happy when he did.

  Mick wasn’t really hung over. He was tired and sad, and he almost hated his success. Normal people didn’t get to grieve like this. They had to go and concentrate and work continue to fit in. Mick didn’t even touch his banking money; didn’t need to. His TV money, with the perpetual wealth that came with a show in syndication, ensured that he could live like royalty for the rest of his life, and then his gambling had somehow become an additional source of great wealth. He didn’t have to make himself do anything, and he hadn’t found a reason to. I drink, therefore I am, or some sort of twisted Cartesian theory of life. Henrik brought him back some hair of the dog, then thanked his favorite hotel guest and left. If Mick still had something, it was his ability to connect with other people.

  He got out his iPhone and texted Danielle. It was early for most people out on the coast, but he figured she would see it when she woke up:

  MICK:

  Just checking on you. If you feel up to it, I would love to help you nail that bastard.

  To his surprise, she answered quickly:

  DANIELLE:

  Yr so sweet! Thank u but i dont want to

  Mick’s heart sank. He wanted to see this guy fry. Needed to. He was a little afraid of how much he needed it.

  He took a deep breath and decided to call. He really shouldn’t get involved. He should just pay for her surgeries, give her some more money for her trouble and walk away. But he couldn’t do that. Fuck that. He needed to help her fix this.

  Mick hit the button and waited for her. He imagined he was about the same age as Danielle, but their miles showed in different ways. Mick hated texting and LOLing and all the ways people had created shortcuts to everything. He still liked phone calls. When he thought they were appropriate that is. Danielle hung up on him. He didn’t know what to think. He dialed the number again, and she again hung up.

  He didn’t want to be a jerk about it, but he thought she was being silly too. This man had maimed her. He needed to pay.

  Mick put his phone down, then heard the lonely text sound. He picked up his phone:

  DANIELLE

  Sry just cant. He will mk it wrs. Ty for all yr help u r a doll.

  He dialed her again. Again she hung up on him.

  This girl.

  He waited a second, took a deep breath, then wrote her a simple text:

  MICK:

  I even the playing field.

  DANIELLE:

  So I saw.

  He knew he deserved that.

  MICK:

  You are right about that. But I promise I’ll help you make good on this. But he needs to pay.

  DANIELLE:

  Y r u caring about me? He is more like u than I am.

  This was a dose of humble pie that he may have needed. He could talk all he wanted about how he acted, but it wasn’t always seen that way by people in other positions.

  MICK:

  For the past year, I’ve been more like you. Or at least felt like I have. Long story. But I certainly don’t fit in with that asshole.

  Danielle didn’t respond. Not at first. He wasn’t going to push her; if she didn’t want his help, he couldn’t do anything about that. He put his phone down and closed his eyes. This whole thing was making him nervous and angry.

  Finally, maybe ten minutes later, when he was almost ready to drift off to another half-nap, he heard the tone. He turned the phone over to see.

  DANIELLE:

  Ok.

  Never had a text made him so happy.

  * * *

  Danielle told Mick she would text him when she got to the hotel, but not to expect her for a while. Spider showed up after about an hour, and Mick gave him information that Danielle had related about Alfred. It took a few calls and a few expensive promises, but before Danielle showed, Spider had discovered that Alfred was, in fact, Trevor Hanson, a real estate investor who was as well known for his prominent role in the LDS church as he was for the Best Buys he had built all over the southwest. He had no criminal record, no bad reviews on escort/client sites (no reviews at all, for that matter) and he had never even as much as been sued. He doted on his grandchildren, who were featured in several magazine spreads and in his company’s ads. He was squeaky clean.

  Mick even felt a little knot in his stomach about that. He was going up with a beloved character. Him and a disfigured prostitute. But damn he couldn’t let this man get away with it. Reputation be damned: He had seen what he had done to this woman.

  Danielle finally texted him that she was waiting on the street. He walked down and saw a car that had started the same color red as his Ferrari, but had withstood a lot more wear. The color of her beat-up Mazda Miata was now a spotted almost-pink, and between that and the bandage on Danielle’s face, Mick didn’t know where to look. He had intended to take his car, but he didn’t want to further embarrass her by not wanting to get in hers. The valet clearly didn’t know where to look either, so he stared at the money Mick pressed into his hand.

  * * *

  The young detective who had the misfortune to draw this case didn’t know what to think. She was young enough that she was captivated by Mick and his beard and his eyes and he could tell it was hard for her to look away from him. But she was of an age and a lack of upbringing to where she didn’t know what to do with Danielle either. She gave Mick her card, and he would have to fish it out to remember her name, which had fallen out of his head as soon as she said it. He couldn’t do this without being obvious, but he really wanted to, so that he could get her to focus on the obvious wrong that had been done to Danielle instead of looking at her with homeless-level disdain. Mick kept noticing her moving her eyes between Danielle’s bandage and her torpedos, and looking at both things like they weren’t a part of this woman.

  She was trying to curry favor with Mick, but that was hard considering how much she disliked his companion. Mick tried to work this to his advantage, but the two were too intertwined. He excused himself to use the restroom, and pulled out the card as soon as he got out of the room.

  Heather Woodmansey. Heather. Heather. Like the movie. That’s what he would remember. Like the movie Heathers. He needed her to help here. She was the person who could push this along or shit-can it. By the rotten food face she was making, he knew where she was headed.

  He got back in the room to find Danielle in tears. He looked at Heather with disdain he normally reserved for Lance.

  “What is going on here?”

  “Just going over what goes on when someone like her files charges against a man like this.” Heather tried to play this off like she was doing Danielle a favor. Mick looked at Danielle, who was in the middle of a mournful cry. She wouldn’t make eye contact with either of them.

  “Can I speak to you? Alone?” Mick asked. It was not meant as a question.

  Heather puppied along behind him, until they were out in the hall.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked, doing everything he could from taking out a year’s worth of rage on one silly, mewly woman.

  “I was just…”

  “Don’t even try to tell me you were doing her a favor. I saw how you were looking at her.”

  “But she…”

  “There are no buts, Heather. She was viciously assaulted. I was there.”

  “You didn’t see him cut her. She could have done that herself.” She said it like she was trying to convince Mick of this, like it was a fact. She wanted Mick to quit defending this woman.

  Mick didn’t have the words. He wanted to punch something, but there was nothing to punch that wouldn’t cost him dearly. He wanted to punch himself mainly, but he couldn’t do that hard enough. He turned his back on Heather and walked five paces slowly. He bit his lip so hard he was afraid it would bleed. Then he turned on his heels to face her.

  “This woma
n has been through enough. I thought she would get justice here but that’s not going to happen, is it?”

  His glare was withering and one that no crush could withstand.

  “I think she already got justice, if you have to ask me,” Heather needed to say something shocking to justify her stupid and unwarranted position.

  “We’ll be going now,” he said, in a voice so quiet he wasn’t even sure he had spoken at all.

  * * *

  Danielle had stopped crying, but when she looked at Mick, she started again. He caught her attention, then took her arm and they left. He had no words. He thought this would be a walk in the park. This, the one thing he needed to go right. She had been brutally assaulted. He was as close to an eyewitness as you could get. And now he couldn’t even get the police to bother to fill out a report.

  He squeezed her arm as they walked out to her car. Neither of them said a word. She had expected this outcome. Her sadness came from confirming her suspicions. His came from the fact that he would have bet everything he had on the opposite outcome. Mick had the last thing he believed in, some sort of basic justice in a country where that’s all that’s spoken.

  They got to the car, and Mick stood by the passenger side. “I’m gonna… “

  “I appreciate…”

  They both started talking over each other. Both were trying to explain everything away.

  “Look. I know how this must seem. But I’m gonna get something done.”

  She laughed, not dismissively, but as someone who had seen this before.

  “Look. They’re not going to do anything to him. I thank you for trying. You seem super nice. But they’re just not.”

  “That’s not okay,” Mick said, realizing how weak it sounded.

  “I don’t think it matters if it’s okay. That’s just how it is,” she said with a catch in her voice. She sighed. “Just if you can, I’d appreciate it if you could help me fix this,” she gestured to the mess that had been made of her face.