Born of Greed

by Baroni, J. T.

  Trotter hurriedly shook his head yes.

  “Okay then. Four or five ccs, depending on their weight. Unless a person has been consuming alcohol, then you want to administer no more than two or three ccs.” He pointed to the appropriate lines on the hypodermic. “Any more than that and you will stop their breathing. That’s why the ER has to do blood alcohol content testing on trauma patients before using Propofol. Such as drunk drivers or drunks that got shot or knifed.”

  “That small amount will put a person under for surgery?”

  “For ten minutes. Thirty seconds after giving a dose of this and you can amputate both legs with a chain saw. Longer surgeries require a gas, like nitrous oxide mixed with other good shit, after getting a shot of this first.”

  “Where’s the scalpel?”

  “In the bag.” Newman then held his hands up. “I held up my end of the bargain, what do I get in return?”

  “You’ll walk away like nothing ever happened. It’ll be on record that you went clean.” Trotter said as he put the goodies in his own bag.

  “Stay here for an hour and work up a sweat so Marcy doesn’t suspect anything.” He gave Newman a little salute and headed for the door.

  “Detective.” Newman stopped him. “Be careful, any more than five ccs of that stuff and you will be committing murder.”

  Trotter smiled. “Capiche.”

  Immediately after entering his apartment, he called Amber. “It’s on. I just picked up my bottle for the party. Like I said, it’s not Tanqueray.”

  * * * *

  He did not have to be at the Fontaine estate until five, so he tried to get as much sleep as possible for his busy night. After much tossing and turning, he felt as rested as he possibly could be.

  At four o’clock, the Fontaine mansion was a beehive of activity. The lawn care crew was finishing the grounds. The caterers were setting up their tables inside, and the pool cleaning crew was putting their equipment away. All the while, Jonny put the finishing touches on Amy.

  Since her new Lambo was her means of transportation to the stadium, Trotter was to follow in his car. At six thirty, she pulled into the stadium and Trotter parked in his reserved spot. The show started at seven, so they had to wait. Trotter and a few rent-a-cops escorted her while she signed autographs.

  The crowd roared when they heard the bass line to “One Little Kiss” start its loop. A technician secured a wireless mic onto Amy’s leather vest lapel. At seven sharp, she was in her pink Lamborghini and ready to make this concert history. “Are you ready to party?” She shouted into the mic and her voice echoed throughout the stadium. Again, the crowd went nuts.

  She followed the orange cones leading up on to the stage, and then she parked her car so everybody could see the vanity plate. After a couple of quick high revs of the engine, she did her strut to center stage. “Hello…San Diego!” She screamed with much enthusiasm. The roar of the fans was deafening.

  Trotter, standing ground level and off to the corner, shoved his earplugs in. Scanning the crowd, he did not recognize any co-workers. Good. They probably got traffic detail or admittance watch at the main gates.

  Into the mic she hollered, “In case nobody knows who I am…my name is Fontaine…and I welcome you all to my farewell concert!” Again, the kids erupted. Then she asked her trademark line, “What do you want to hear?”

  In unison, thousands hollered back, “One Little Kiss,” and Trotter thought, Yeah! The song Amber wrote, with no recognition or appreciation. She made you famous, and her song made you millions. You’ll be getting what you truly deserve, you little bitch. And so will Amber.

  In between verses, Amy did her deep nasal inhales followed with gulps of her ‘juice’ to wash it down. Trotter knew she must have done quite a bunch of cocaine before leaving the mansion. Now she was getting a head start on her celebrating; unbeknownst to the fifty thousand plus kids watching as she did her last concert ever. For three straight hours, Fontaine did put on one hell of a show.

  “You guys are great!” she hollered into the mic. “Thank you all. Goodnight San Diego!” She drove the Lambo down the ramp as Trotter headed for his car. There was not going to be any autograph signings tonight; she wanted to avoid the huge traffic jam and get home to party her ass off.

  Jonny and his date, Giorgio, left the concert early to be at the mansion for her arrival. He made sure her Tanqueray and tonic was ready; a big pitcher of the concoction waited in the fridge.

  “You sure do know how to mix a splendid drink.” Giorgio, tall, dark, and skinny as a rail, exclaimed to Jonny, after sampling the pitcher. Jonny thanked him, and gave him a kiss on his lips.

  Nancy stayed at the estate to welcome any early arrivals. Amber was not on the guest list, while mostly people that Amy despised were, such as her lawyers, accountants and her manager. Reps from her cologne line and clothing venture also attended. Other than Jonny and Nancy, Amy did not have many close friends. Just two girls from high school who regarded Fontaine as ‘absolutely marvelous.’ Trotter saw no reason why she even threw a party for the dozen or so people that came.

  “Happy retirement, Girl!” Jonny exclaimed, giving Amy a giant glass of her favorite concoction as she and Trotter entered the mansion. “Thank you, Jonny.”

  She took a giant swallow, and asked him, “Do you know what?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “No, what?”

  Amy gulped her the rest of the drink and laughed. “For being a gay Motherfucker, you sure know how to please a girl.” A giant smile crossed Jonny’s face because of such rare praise coming from his Boss Lady. “I know how to please anybody, Sweetie,” he proclaimed, eyeing Trotter. He almost blew a kiss to Trotter, but caught himself just in time.

  “Give me your glass, Fontaine, I’ll be happy to get you a refill.” She handed him her glass and then she walked over to her manager. He was thirtyish; a medium built man with glasses, and wore a suit.

  “Well, Roger? Did you find another asshole to swindle yet, now that our contract is up?” She blamed him for the five years of concert obligations. He looked at her with a very disgusted look and calmly said, “Fuck you, you little bitch!” Then he headed for the door. Trotter, helping himself to the shrimp cocktail, was within earshot of the quick conversation and thought, Good for you, Roger. Her manager was just one of the many people who helped her become rich and famous. However, in her mind, she over compensated Roger for what little he did. Just another ‘greedy bastard living off my sweat and success.’

  Jonny returned with a tray holding three shots of Tanqueray and her refill. Giorgio was right behind him. Amy, Nancy and her boyfriend were engaged in conversation by the buffet table. “Oh Fontaine,” Jonny sung out her name. “Giorgio and I would like to do a shot with you to commemorate this glorious event.”

  “Excellent idea!” Amy said as she grabbed her shot and threw it back before Jonny had a chance to recite his much-practiced toast.

  He raised his shot glass anyhow and his boyfriend followed suit. “To Fontaine,” Jonny said with a lot less enthusiasm in his voice. Then the two went to play Marco Polo in the swimming pool.

  Amy chased her shot down with a few gulps of the refill. “As I was saying Nancy, after tonight, I don’t want to be bothered by any of these assholes. When I’m getting drunk on the beach in Cancun, I don’t even want to think of this place. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” She laughed and finished her gin and tonic. “Excuse me while I get a refill.”

  She walked past the Greek god statues and headed to the bar for another round of her juice. Mr. Glessner, Amy’s top attorney, stopped her to congratulate her on retiring. After a few words, he took his wife by the arm and they headed for the front door.

  Quietly, discreetly, Trotter slipped out the door and made his way to the motor home. After three light knocks on the door, Amber unlocked it and opened it. “How are things going in there?” she asked. Around nine o’clock, she had a taxi drop her off and she had been hiding in the bus since.

/>   “Just as we thought. Amy’s getting drunk, and one by one she’s pissing them off and they’re leaving. Probably in two hours, the only guests that’ll be here will be Jonny and his date, and Nancy and her boyfriend, and Melissa and Joyce. And all of them are drinking like fish. I’ll be back to get you when the show starts.”

  “Okay,” Amber nervously said. Then a quick kiss.

  On his way back in the front door, Sid the accountant was telling his wife as they were leaving, “I knew coming here tonight was going to be a big mistake.”

  It was more like an hour for her to piss off all the suits. By one o’clock in the morning, only those six people remained. Then Jonny and his date announced they were going downtown to Anton’s, a new gay bar that had just recently opened.

  Trotter sat on the sofa watching ESPN, and then he pretended to fall asleep. Thirty minutes later, he heard Nancy say her goodbyes to Amy; “I’ll stop by in the morning around nine to clean up.”

  Then Amy and her two girlfriends went and sat at a card table on the other side of the giant living room, pounding shots of Tanqueray with chasers of tonic water. Squinting through one eyelid, Trotter watched as Amy tried to focus her gaze on her lighter she had waving at the end of a cigarette hanging from her mouth. Then her friend Melissa spoke in slurred speech, “He’s so fucking cute Amy! Did you ever do him?”

  Amy replied in a much more slurred run of words, “Muscle bound Motherfuckers don’t excite me. He’s too fucking old anyways.”

  Then Joyce added her opinion, “I would ride that stallion till his balls…” She put her hand over her mouth, “I don’t feel so good.” She staggered off to the bathroom.

  Amy and Melissa laughed, and Melissa said, “That lightweight never could hold her alcohol.”

  When Amy pulled a baggie of cocaine out of her jean’s pocket, Melissa’s eyes widened, “All right! The fun stuff.”

  “Roll this up.” Amy threw a hundred dollar bill at her friend, then chopped out two lines as big as Canadian night crawlers.

  “Wow!” Melissa exclaimed after snorting the seven-inch long line. “That’s some really tasty shit!”

  Joyce zigzagged back to the table just as Amy finished her line. “Care for some rocket fuel, Joyce?” Amy offered her friend.

  “No thanks, I’m going to crash.” She then curled up on the loveseat and passed out.

  For the next hour, Trotter listened as Amy and her inebriated friend talked shit, in between shots and lines. “I have to piss like a race horse,” Melissa said. However, when she stood, she had to grab the back of her chair to keep from falling over. “Whoa! I can’t remember the last time I was this fucked up.” She held on to anything and everything to make her way to the bathroom.

  After stumbling back to her seat and plopping down, Melissa said, “I’ll smoke one more cigarette with you. Then I think I’ll crash too.”

  For a skinny little brunette, she held her liquor rather well, Trotter thought. He watched as the two drunks swayed while torching their Virginia Slims.

  “Christ!” Melissa bitched, laughing hysterically. “I lit the wrong fucking end.” She tossed the stinking thing in the ashtray and fired up another one. Correctly this time.

  “Congratulations, Amy. Nice party, too,” she told her friend.

  “Yeah, I told all them bastards what I thought of them, didn’t I?” Then she laughed. “Just like my parasite twin.”

  Amy spilled gin all over the table while trying to fill her shot glass and then put the bottle to Melissa’s glass. “No thanks, Amy. Any more of that and I’ll be barfing, too.”

  Amy did her shot, and then said, “Looks like the party’s over.”

  Trotter watched through his eyelashes as Melissa stumbled on to the other end of the huge sofa he was on, while Amy crawled on all fours up the grand staircase. Two minutes later, he heard Melissa snore, and he sat up.

  Maybe your party is over bitch, but mine and Amber’s is just starting!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “And in a case of mistaken identity. They put a bullet through his heart.”

  Mick Jagger/The Rolling Stones

  “What took so long?” Amber nervously asked, after she heard their signal of three knocks and opened the door.

  “She’s a diehard, especially after snorting a giant pile of toot. We’re only fifteen minutes behind our estimated schedule. It just seems longer for you, being all alone out here,” Trotter reassured her. They’d come too far now for her to bail out on him.

  He grabbed his little tote bag from the Mustang and they scurried inside. “Are you sure they’re out?” Amber asked in a whisper, referring to Amy’s two friends.

  “Oh yeah. Watch.” Trotter lightly shook each girl; asking very loudly for their car keys, with no response from either.

  “I believe you,” Amber said, feeling a little safer now.

  Amy was snoring when they cautiously entered her bedroom. Trotter pulled the hypodermic from the satchel, which he had already loaded with two and a half ccs of the Propofol. He pried the plastic protector end off the needle and instructed Amber to swab Amy’s arm with an alcohol swab. “As drunk as she is, we probably don’t even need this drug. But why take the chance?” He stated as he stuck the needle in her arm. Amy’s eyes opened wide, but before she could focus them, they closed and she went under. Trotter glanced at his wristwatch. The time was 2:44.

  “That’s almost funny,” Amber said. “She’s a big baby when it comes to needles.”

  Trotter propped the comatose girl up with pillows and then held her head upright by holding her under her jaw. “Off with the locks,” he told Amber, who already had the scissors in hand. Thirty seconds later and Amy’s long beautiful blonde hair was reduced to collar length. The cut off hair went into a zip-lock bag.

  Then, using disposable latex gloves, Amber set a record for the fastest dye job ever done. Trotter held Amy’s limp body over the bathtub while Amber frantically rinsed the dye from her sister’s hair. She wrapped a towel around the short locks and squeezed the remainder of Fontaine’s once famous hair until it was damp dry. Her twin now had short, coal black hair. All evidence of the hair coloring went into another zip-lock. Trotter glanced at the time. Fifteen minutes had passed. Amy’s drug and alcohol self-induced state was clearly helping keep her subdued as the Propofol should have been wearing off. He reclined Amy on the bed and administered one more cc of the drug. He placed the syringe on the nightstand.

  He swabbed her mole with an alcohol swab, then using a pair of tweezers; he grasped the mole and stretched the tiny piece of dark pigmented skin from her face. One quick and precise stroke of the scalpel close to her face, and the mole came off. It, along with the scalpel and tweezers went into a baggie.

  Trotter used another swab and held pressure on the incision while Amber lit one of Amy’s Virginia Slims from her nightstand. Without inhaling, she got the cigarette glowing red and handed it to Trotter. He took it, removed the alcohol swab, and used the cigarette to cauterize the wound. Amy never flinched, but the sight, the sound, and the smell made Amber wince and turn her head. “I knew this was going to be the worst part for me.”

  Trotter removed the glowing ash from Amy’s cheek and swabbed the area. A small drop of blood oozed out. He swabbed that and touched the cigarette to her cheek again for five more seconds. Another wipe with a fresh swab revealed no more blood this time.

  Amber washed the left over dye residue from her hands while Trotter scanned the bedroom for any incriminating evidence. He put another two ccs in the syringe and put the plastic tip back on. He gave that to Amber to hide in her vest pocket.

  Trotter then pulled an eight ball of coke from his pocket, a benefit of having access to the evidence room. He then told Amber to plant the baggie in Amy’s pocket, which he would have done himself, but his huge hands would have never fit in her tiny pockets. Once she planted the toot, he told Amber to put the cheap blond wig on her sister. “Make sure it’s a loose fit.”

 
; Trotter donned his own jacket, and asked, “Do you remember the number?”

  Amber recited the seven-digit phone number from memory.

  “Right. Call that number in exactly twenty-five minutes to report the intruder.” He chuckled. “And I doubt if she’ll stir, but if she does, give her another blast. The hypo is all set.” Amber glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. A quick kiss and Trotter left for the precinct. Before getting in his car, he hid the evidence of their crime in the trunk of his Mustang.

  Twenty-two minutes later, Trotter was making small talk with Officer Grecik at the dispatch desk. “I guess everything has calmed down now, Paul. I’m going to punch out and get some shut eye. Thank God this night’s over, today’s youth are pathetic.” Trotter told the night dispatcher.

  “You would not have believed some of the characters that came through here tonight, Jack. We had these two kids that…” Grecik rattled on and on. Trotter knew once he got him started, he would not shut up. He liked to hear himself talk, Trotter swore to God. At least until the phone finally rang and Grecik took the call.

  Trotter could hear the frantic woman on the other end. “Which is it Lady?” Grecik asked into the phone, “An imposter, or an intruder?” He rolled his eyes at Trotter, and wrote down the address. “Oh, both. I see. Yes, I understand. I’ll send an officer right over.”

  He hung up and looked at Trotter. “You spoke too soon, Jack. That lady claimed to be the one and only Fontaine, and she said some psycho bitch is masquerading as her and even crashed her retirement party. Her security guys have her subdued. You want to take this call or shall I call Dailey.”

  “What’s the address, Paul? There’s no need to wake Dailey. I’ll handle it, but I’ll call if I need back up. This is either a hoax, or it’ll be real interesting.” Trotter said as he reached for the keys to an unmarked LTD.