by Ben Bequer
“Yeah, but he let his registration lapse,” he started again, but once more Blackwell jumped in.
“Judge, the Wattley Act gives you wide discretion on these matters.”
“Is he even registered now?” Sandy asked. “My math may be off, but it’s been at least nine months since his registration expired.”
The judge leaned over to one of the clerks, “Can we check the database and see if Mr. Atmosphero is registered?”
Blackwell shot to his feet, waving his hands to his aides, “Judge, really. This is all covered in the third Appendix and...” one of his aides found the right page in the massive Wattley Act, and Blackwell took the book from his hands.
Sandy didn’t wait, it was time to go for the kill, and here, he was the best.
“Judge, he wasn’t registered. And you know what else? They found nothing in the remnants of my client’s house that implicates him in any crime whatsoever. I mean, who’s the hero and who’s the villain here?” he asked, opening his arms wide and shooting me a wink. It was thanks to Sandy that the house was clean. It was something he drilled into me like a mantra, “never give them anything to pin on you.” He had been the mastermind, routing money all over the world in order to return it to me clean (at a fee). Though Blackwell had seized every red cent, clean or not, there was nothing they could do to make it all stick.
“Here,” the prosecutor sang out, finding the right wording. “The judge will have discretion over-”
“Can Atmosphero come to anyone’s house and do this?” Sandy interrupted. “He destroyed a multi-million dollar home, thousands of dollars in furnishings, wrecked several vehicles, and what evidence did he have? Hell, where is he? I don’t see him here.”
Sandy looked around the courtroom dramatically.
“He wasn’t registered, Judge, so his attack was illegal. He didn’t even have authority to arrest my client. I don’t know what else there is to discuss.”
Sandy sat down, and then rose again.
“Judge, if I could ask you to rule on the motion to dismiss right now,” he said and went back to his drawing.
“Nice, huh?” he whispered to me, but I didn’t know if he meant the drawing or his argument.
“Judge, if I may?” Blackwell said, rising and ready to read from a heavy legal tome, but the judge was checking something on his laptop, and put his hand up in the air.
“Mr. Blackwell,” the judge said. “I’m not certain that we need to go any further. If the information presented here is correct, and from my search in Westlaw, it is, then the arrest was unlawful. Have you anything to say specifically pertaining to that?”
Blackwell shrugged, knowing he was beaten.
“Then I suggest you reorganize and re-file charges,” the judge said. “Case dismissed.”
* * *
And just like that, I was free, out on the street and paranoid as hell.
Every helicopter or caped super that flew by made my heart start, as did every cop or cop car. The streets of downtown Los Angeles are replete with cameras of all sorts, including at most traffic lights. Private security cameras jutted from most buildings, coverage that was available to law enforcement and I was sure they were all keeping track of me, following my every move. By the time Sandy picked me up I was imagining the proverbial Men in Black following me in silent helicopters, dressed in tactical gear and ready to pounce on me should a shoelace go untied.
Sandy drove like a maniac to a cafe nearby, a few blocks from the courthouse, more concerned with the conversation on his cell phone than any laws or rules of traffic. It was like a race to him, like a contest where he was losing points if he didn’t accelerate his Mercedes SLR McLaren to the redline on the tachometer, and roar the engine to top velocity between red lights. The only problem was he was a distracted driver, and the conversation with his secretary was more a concern to him than his or my life.
As a passenger, the ride felt exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, as he cut people off aggressively, turned corners while squealing the rear tires, and weaved through traffic at two, even three times the speed limit. And for at least a few minutes, I forgot about Blackwell, the cameras, and the figment Men in Black.
Coming to a complete stop was a test for the braking system, as well as your stomach and its contents. The tires screeched to a halt as we came up to the valet service of the restaurant, inches from a Bugatti Veyron Bleu Centenaire Edition. Sandy jumped out of the car, and took the ticket from the valet guy in a single motion, never once missing his place in the conversation.
“You must get a lot of tickets,” I said, jogging a bit to catch up to him. I was a full head taller than him with long legs, yet I had to hurry to keep pace with him.
“Kidding me? I used to defend dirty cops before I moved on to supers,” he joked.
“You almost wrecked a two point five million dollar Bugatti.”
“Nah, it really wasn’t that close,” he smiled and turned to the hostess. “Two for brunch,” and he returned to his phone conversation.
The hostess sat us, and finally Sandy closed his clamshell phone.
“Best thing here’s the omelet. Doesn’t matter what you put in it, it’s fantastic.”
Sandy put aside his menu, and his phone rang. He monitored the call but put it on vibrate atop his napkin, as our waitress arrived.
“What can I get you gentlemen?”
Our waitress was young, in her mid-twenties, and pretty enough that you could tell she had ambitions as a model or actress. Her black hair was long and straight, styled to the side and pulled back into a tail. She scanned me and I could tell instantly that she was interested.
We ordered and she strolled off.
“What is it with you supers,” Sandy snapped, exasperated. “Women go fucking nuts for you guys. It’s ridiculous.”
“One of the perks.”
“Yeah, right,” he spat. “I have another client. I can’t say the name, but he had some chick was camping his place, following him around. And she was sexy, man. Total biscuit. I mean, she was crazy as fuck, you know? But hot enough to be on the cover of anything.”
“I’ve never had problem with women, Sandy. Just with people,” I said, then added, “Besides, I haven’t found one worth the effort.”
“You kidding, right? Me, I don’t discriminate. Shit, chicks are all I think about,” he laughed. “But I’m telling you, I should leave the whole stinking legal business and become your pimp. Maybe get a stable of supers.”
I sipped my water and leaned back in the chair.
“You’re not even like...good looking. Shit, I’m handsomer than you. If only I was six feet five, or whatever you are, and had that chin dimple and your hair…Hell, I could have gone places.”
“Last I checked, you’re the one driving the Benz and the sexy blonde wife, and I’m the one who’s going to have charges re-filed on him,” I said scratching my chin stubble.
He chuckled and chugged his water.
“Don’t worry about that,” Sandy beamed. “Atmosphero’s word doesn’t hold any more water in court than anyone else’s. Fuck that guy.”
I toasted with him with the water glass, as the waitress came back with coffee for me, and a strawberry – banana frappe for him.
“What’s your name, by the way?” I asked the waitress, who had neglected to introduce herself.
“I’m Valeria,” she said, surprised at first, pleased soon after.
“You Hispanic?”
“Yes,” she said. “My grandfather’s from Costa Rica.”
“I went to Costa Rica once,” Sandy said, trying in vain to get her attention.
“I’m Dale,” I said, extending my hand for her to shake it. She was holding her order book with her right and fumbled it a bit swapping hands with it, dropping her pen on the table. Valeria picked it up and finally shook my hand back.
“San Jose, and all around,” Sandy continued. “It’s a lovely country. Great beaches.”
“Nice to me
et you,” she said. “Your orders will be out shortly.”
She walked off.
“Ha! I’m telling you, we’re in the wrong line of business.”
“She’s a nice girl. Try to be cool, Sandy.”
“I am. I’m cool. It’s just, she...” he flashed a glance at her. “That girl wants to have your babies right here, on this table, with me watching. Man, I’d give my left nut sack for powers. I wouldn’t want to be strong, or fly or anything like that. Like ‘he can count money fast’ or ‘I can make people giggle’. That would be so sweet.”
I laughed and drank my coffee, looking around the restaurant. It was a small place, with wrought iron furniture, the tables topped with square slate marble. The chair was a bit too small for me, pressing hard against my hips.
“So I want to talk to you about something,” he said, finally done beating around the bush.
“Tell me,” I said, studying one by one the patrons of the restaurant. Sandy was so single minded, that he probably figured I was casing for a backup plan in case things fell through with Valeria. But this guy was the only person alone, a recent arrival sitting in the far corner. He wore a smart suit, beyond even Sandy’s level, maybe a Broni or Kiton. His hair was perfectly trimmed, probably a few hundred dollars for the cut alone, and he wore Alexander McQueen glasses.
I’d had some nice stuff at the house, including a few Brionis of my own, but right now all I owned were the clothes I was wearing, including a belt that cost four dollars at the Army-Navy store.
“I was wondering what you want to do with yourself from now on. I mean, long term.”
“Well,” I said feeling a bit embarrassed. “I’d like to take it to the next level. I want to go bigger.”
“Bigger?”
Here I had to be careful, because I had my sources of information too, and I knew that Sandy was up to something big. Something I wanted to be a part of. Something he hadn’t mentioned to me directly, which meant he didn’t see me that way.
“I’m ready for it, Sandy. Banks and shit are beneath me.”
He laughed, “You kidding? That was a nice house you had.”
I was a bit bashful about talking money with Sandy. I always had a feeling that our relationship was solid as long as I was “earning”. And since things were tight these days, and made more difficult by my recent encounter with Atmosphero, I didn’t really know where we stood. In the end, I chanced it.
“I wasn’t making anywhere near enough. Hell, I don’t know what I’m going to do to pay you for this. And don’t say it’s cool, because I know it’s not. You’ve probably burned through the retainer already.”
“Man, when you’re as good as you are, you don’t have to worry about money.”
“It’s easy to say that when you have money. I don’t have shit now. I want you to keep me in mind if anything’s going on.”
Sandy smiled, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands.
“What are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know, Sandy. You tell me.”
“You found out about the thing I’m putting together?”
I smiled.
He shrugged, “No offense, dude, but you’re not ready.”
“Because of the Atmo thing?”
“No man. I mean, yeah, in a way, but that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“Well, I can’t figure you out.” He paused and looked around shifting closer to me. “You need to get serious and figure out what you want to do.”
“Oh?”
“Well, there’s one of my clients, who I won’t name here.” He paused as another waiter, this time a guy, brought our food. I had ordered an omelet like his, except mine had real eggs, cheese, bacon and vegetables, whereas his was egg whites and shallots.
“This client of mine, he’s into your same business. And he’s very talented. The guy is known worldwide. I tell you his name, and you’ll instantly recognize him. He’s got a whole plan mapped out for what he wants to accomplish with himself. Marketing, finance, publishing, the works. I mean, the guy has, like, a million friends on Facebook. If he ever goes away, he knows things are taken care of.”
Sandy sipped from his water and looked around suspiciously, then continued.
“Anyway, forget about going big right now. With this shit hanging over you, you might want to lay low for a few. Let me do my thing.”
“Laying low means no money coming in,” I said.
“It’s not me that was hitting those no-money jobs, man. I can dig that some of that stuff might be personal or whatever, but it’s a risk you take without any windfall, if you know what I mean. Besides, you got beat by Atmosphero, and the guy’s like, what? A tier three guy? Who’s going to want to give you a chance?”
“You saying I’m on my own?”
He laughed, “Of course not! You kidding me? You think I’d drop you after the first step back? Come on, you have to have more confidence in me. In yourself.”
I sat back, flustered and frustrated, my every move checked. I saw no way to go forward without being thwarted.
“The thing that bothers me about you is that you don’t even know what you want to be. What the fuck are you doing with the bow and arrow bit, huh? You’re strong as shit. You’re tough as shit. You should be trading blows with the big guys, like Epic and Paladin. I mean, seriously, how’d he even beat you?”
“I don’t know,” I started, but he went on.
“He’s nothing next to you, man,” Sandy continued. “You have to tell me that shit was a huge mistake, that you were high or something, because if you can’t beat a guy like that, maybe it is time to move on to something else.”
“I beat him once,” I said, feeling the blood boil under my fingernails, getting far angrier at the whole thing than I should have.
He looked at me, nodding.
“When he caught me, I was Dale, you know?” I went on. “I was chilling, drinking a beer. I’d been surfing all day. My mind wasn’t in it at all. I was totally defensive.”
Sandy shrugged. “Then be ‘Dale’ less,” he said, noticing the waitress approach. “Take this shit serious is all I’m saying. Why bother otherwise?”
Valeria came over, standing how waiters do with her hands clenched behind her back.
“And how is everything? It looks like someone liked their meal!” she said, looking down at my empty plate. Sandy was still picking.
“Would you like anything else?” she added.
“Yeah,” Sandy laughed, mid-bite.
Afraid he was going to say something rude, I said, “Could you get me some more coffee?”
“Be my pleasure.”
Sandy ogled her as she walked off. “Her pleasure. I bet.”
He looked over at me, suddenly serious.
“You know, you eat really fast.”
“Ever had jail food?”
“Good point,” he said and wiped his mouth with his napkin as the phone rang again.
“We’ll talk more about that in the coming days,” he continued, ignoring the call. “For now, you lay low. Like LOW, ok?”
“Got it,” I said.
“You okay on money?”
“I’m good,” I lied.
“Stay out of trouble and I might have something for us. Maybe. I gotta check. This whole Jet Propulsion Lab thing might change things, but I can’t promise anything.”
His phone rang again.
“Damn it, something must’ve happened at the office. I got to head back. You got this?”
“Sure,” I said as he answered the phone and stormed off to the valet stand. He was racing off in his Mercedes when I realized I had gone into jail in my boxer shorts, and now had no money on me. I didn’t even have my credit cards or identification, which had probably been lost along with everything else in the house.
“Fuck!”
“Something wrong?” Valeria asked, hearing me as she was tending the table with the well-dressed guy. She walk
ed over.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Sorry,” I muttered.
“Your friend had to leave?”
And with him he left all chance of my paying for this meal. I was out of jail less than an hour and I was already about to commit another crime. Over a fifty dollar tab. I could get up and walk off. There wasn’t anything Valeria or anyone else could do about it. Nor any cops nor anyone else, short of a super being in the restaurant right now. But I didn’t leave. And it wasn’t because of the money. I hate to admit it; I didn’t want to do something so stupid and callous.
“Yes, Valeria, uhm...” I managed, wholly ashamed of myself. “I have a problem. My friend...”
I paused again, not sure where to start. I felt like such a loser, such a failure. “Hi, my name is Dale McKeown and I can’t do a fucking thing right,” I should’ve told her, and everyone at the restaurant.
“I just got out of jail,” I managed to say and her expression changed. “And my friend, the guy that was here? He’s my attorney, and...well, I don’t have my wallet, or any money. I can pay; it’s not that I don’t have money. I don’t have any on me.”
“Oh,” she said with a big smile on her face. “Your tab was covered.”
“Sandy paid?” I wondered aloud, thankful at his kind gesture.
“I don’t know the gentleman’s name,” she said and pointed at the guy with the fancy clothes, who took a sip from his orange juice and walked over. He was handsome and tall, almost as tall as me, and carried himself with a self-assured athletic grace.
He came up to me and leaned down, his strong hand resting on my shoulder.
“I’m going to be keeping an eye on you,” the man said with a voice I would recognize anywhere.
It was Atmosphero.
“Would you like anything else?” Valeria asked, but my attention was on Atmosphero, who was walking towards the valet. He jumped into the Bugatti Veyron parked in front of the restaurant and lowered his glasses, flashing me a playful wink before roaring off.