That put me ahead for a few months, but then I hit a dry spell. Before I joined the Army I’d picked up a little bread as a sometime movie extra. I gave that a shot, figuring any work beat hanging around the house. But ‘twas truly said, you can’t go home again. I found myself in the same old Hollywood breakfast mix—fruits, nuts and flakes. Back in high school it seemed sort of glamorous and exciting and, well, “real life.” But once genuine real life hits you in the face, you see clearly the squalidness of the nether levels of Tinsel Town. A couple of shoots reconciled me to spending idle days out on the beach.
But those idle days at the beach wore thin too. How can you enjoy surfing when you’re out there alone? It’s a social sport, and as good as I was at it, I nevertheless qualified for retirement age, as far as the teenaged surf rats were concerned. They were right—words of wisdom from my experienced lips fell on deaf ears, and I had to wonder if our high school chatter had been as brainless as theirs. Ditto beach volleyball. I held my own and then some with ease, but it bought me no welcome. The young studs grudging made place for me when I asked if I could play, neither side enthusiastic for my help. They nicknamed me “Sojer,” and “Pops,” and “Sir,” and seemed concerned that I might be competition for female attention. Not to worry—the bikinied beach bunnies looked right through me like I was the invisible man. Just as well by me. Viewed from up close with a few years of adult perspective, California surf dollies are a fairly airheaded bunch of sluts. Sour grapes talking there? Hard to say…
My workflow stayed slow, and you can’t spend every day on the beach, so I pursued my leisure elsewhere. To stay in shape and keep my field skills up, I took to High Sierra backpacking with some LRRP buddies. We found the John Muir trail a piece of cake, so used it as a starting point for treks up into the rugged back country. For winter exercise I got some mountaineering equipment and tried my hand at survival cross-country skiing.
One of Evanston’s clients hired me as an escort down to the Caribbean. Charlie Goldenman was his name, a too-smooth character—too well-dressed, too well-mannered, too always-on-top for my tastes. But the work wasn’t difficult. In fact, there was no work at all, except to tote his vinyl carry-on case. He was waiting for me at the appointed spot in the parking garage at L.A. International, accompanied by a big-busted blonde bimbo whom he introduced as “Sheree.” He handed me the case and a ticket through Miami to the Cayman Islands. The heft of the case told me it contained more than just bathing suits and tennis shorts. It was locked. “What am I carrying here?” I asked him.
“Just a few business documents,” he remarked nonchalantly. “Not to worry. You’re along to make sure they reach my associates down in the Islands. I feel better if I have company, that’s all. I mean, Sheree’s good company…” (Sheree flashed an appreciative, empty-headed smile)…”but she’s just along for the ride. All you have to do is, don’t let that bag out of your sight. Now, you run along ahead. I’ll catch up as soon as I take care of some things.” He had an odd conception of traveling with company. He and Sheree flew first class, and I sat back in economy with the case. Surprisingly, since the plane was otherwise pretty full, empty seats flanked me on both sides. When we changed planes in Miami Charlie and Sheree disappeared, nowhere to be seen until, at the final boarding call, they hustled past me to the first class seats.
I didn’t see Charlie and his playmate again until I’d gone through the little airport on Grand Cayman to find them waiting, with several large, sun-glassed men, by a big Mercedes sedan at the curb out front. He motioned me over, lifted the vinyl carry-on from my hand and passed it off to one of his buddies. “Okay, that’s it, Jake, finished, kaput, a job well done,” he said. “Thanks for the assistance…” he dredged a fistful of bills from his pocket and pressed them into my hand .”.. Here’s a little tip. Enjoy your stay in these gorgeous islands. Send me your bill for the service when you get back to L.A.” He, Sheree and his “business associates” piled into the Mercedes and the driver disappeared them down the road, leaving me standing there clutching a bunch of Benjamins
I hadn’t planned on hanging around there, but what the hell, why not? I took a cab into town and got the lay of the land. I booked into a beachside hotel and SCUBA’d and veged out for a few days—some damn fine coral reefs in those waters. I wouldn’t see the Caymans again for about ten years.
Back in the States, I happened to mention my Cayman job to Eddie Lipschitz. “You rode shotgun for Charlie Goldenmitts?” he said. “And no scars or lumps to show for it? No slammer time? Congratulations, Jake, not all of his donkeys do so well.”
“Slammer time? Scars and lumps? All I did was carry his suitcase. What do you mean?”
“You don’t know what was in that case? Maybe just as well. He’s the skim man for one of the Vegas casinos, that’s why they call him Goldenmitts. He siphons some gelt—the big bills—off the top of the day’s take before the management counts and records it. Then he carts it out of the country to offshore banks that don’t ask questions, or answer them either—the Caymans are the closest spot out of reach of the Feds. Naturally the IRS would like to nail Charlie; and it’s black money, making it a big temptation for any hood who can clout it. Not all of Charlie’s couriers have had your luck.”
Jesus Christ! Running dirty money for Las Vegas hoods, and sitting there like a rubber ducky! I went straight to a phone, dialed Evanston’s office, and blew up at him. “Hey, calm down, Jake,” he said. “He’s a good client. He paid you okay, didn’t he?”
“That’s not the point! You put me at risk of a Federal rap, or worse. What kind of clients do you have, anyhow?”
“I can’t discuss client business with you, that would be unethical,” he said, “but look, I had no idea that’s what he had in mind. He told me he needed some help, and it sounded like your line of work, that’s all.”
“I’m not in the felony business, goddammit. What are you trying to do to me?”
“The thanks I get,” he said with a wounded whine. “Jake, I know the state of your finances. Seems to me you can’t be too choosey these days. If you’re going to take that attitude, I’m not sure I want to bring you together with any more of my clients. I can’t risk offending them. I need their business.”
“Evanston, I appreciate your trying to help me out, I really do,” I forced myself to say. “But please, please don’t get me any more jobs that come with a ten-year prison sentence as a bonus, okay?”
“As a first offender with no rap sheet, I could get you off with probation and a fine,” he assured me. “Shoot, with your war record, we could plea bargain it down to a traffic violation. Okay, I’ll screen them better from now on. Really, Jake, I had no idea.
One evening in October of 1977 the phone rang. I answered it to hear: “Jake there, please?”
It sounded like…”Soh Soon?” Good lord, just what I’d been dreading. I hesitated. “This is Jake,” I ventured.
“Oh, Jake, so good hear you! Why you no look me up?” I muttered some excuse about not having her number—which was true, though I’d never made any effort to find it, either. We hemmed and hawed, and made a date to meet for drinks. I showed up at the appointed time and place, a beachside bar and grill south of Malibu, and took a table at the edge of the canopied deck, overlooking the surf and darkening afterglow. Presently a Jaguar sedan rolled into the parking lot. The driver’s door eased open, and she slid out, stood up and tucked it closed in graceful series of flowing tai-chi-like movements. Seeing her glide toward me unleashed memories and loosed some juices. Her walk still hinted of jungle fighter stealth, and her straight dark hair framed that enigmatic Oriental smile that gave away nothing, not even its own meaning. She’d wrapped her willowy figure in a luxuriously draping silk sleeveless top of bright red and a beige, raw silk sheath skirt, straight from Rodeo Drive. She dripped jade and gold sufficient to stock a Kowloon jewelry shop. A suede jacket, insurance against the developing evening c
hill, hung waiter-style over her arm, and a big leather tote swung by its strap-handles from the crook of her elbow—both broadcasting the extravagant emblem of Gucci. It positively warmed my heart to see her re-united with her one true love—money.
I’d worn Levis, a Patagonia sweatshirt and huraches for our reunion. Anywhere but Malibu, one or the other of us would have seemed terribly out of place.
She gave my hand a delicate but firm squeeze and demurely settled her slender, flattened Chinese butt onto the canvas deck chair beside me. “So, what have you been up to in Los Angeles?” I asked her.
“It so great here,” she gushed. “I go college now, learn English.”
“Try again on that English?” I teased.
“I…am go…am go-ing…to college,” she said, flashing a delighted smile of triumph at the full stop. “At UCLA. English pretty good, yes?”
“Improving by leaps and bounds,” I agreed. “How’s college going?”
“So easy,” she said. “Electrical engineering nothing but maths. Anybody can do it. I was afraid have to know about electrics and things, but no problem, straights A’s…well, except for English.”
I assured her it would come with time. We chatted about this and that, but close as we sat to one another, a vast distance separated our nearly-touching knees. At last the tension pushed me to try and close it with a frontal assault. “Soh Soon,” I said, looking intensely into her eyes, “that last night in Bangkok, you tried to rob me. What was that all about?”
She averted her gaze toward the horizon. The reflection of the setting new moon danced on the rippled surface. The gentle but chill breeze unfurled a few stray strands from her silky curtain of hair and streamed them past her ear. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered.
“You left me in the lobby to go to my room to get something you said you’d left there. When I went in later I found the silk pouch where my diamonds had been, lying on the floor. You opened it and put it there. Why did you try to steal my diamonds?”
Her gaze remained fixed toward far distant shores, and her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and constricted. “Not steal. You not know how to get good price for them,” she began tentatively. “So I was going take them and sell them for you, bring you the money.”..her tempo picked up as she went…”because I get better price, know how to bargain with Chinese traders. So helping you out, you see? How much money you sell them for?” I told her ten times the amount Sarge had brought me—which, I’d gathered, had been respectably close to top dollar. “There, you see?” she said. “I would have got twice that much for you, no problem. Anyhow, what the big deal? You still had your diamonds, didn’t you?”
“The big deal is, I thought I could trust you, and then you pull a cheap trick like that. Your story’s pure bullshit! I’ve got to know, why did you do that? I would have given you money, if that’s what you wanted.” I waited for an answer, but none came. Her determined scan of the horizon’s dark edge continued. Finally I grabbed her chin between a thumb and forefinger and pulled her head back around to face me. “Why did you do that?” I demanded.
Pained eyes shot a furtive glance into mine, then downcast. She started to squirm her face out of my grasp, then resigned herself to the confrontation. “I can’t tell you, Jake. Big trouble if I tell you. It wasn’t what you think. I told you, don’t think me a bad person. I no wanted to hurt you. Please to believe me?”
Wasn’t much else I could do, but believe her. Not likely I’d get any information out of her she didn’t want to give—after all, she’d done a hitch as a Khmer Rouge torture-chamber interrogator and knew all the tricks as well as I did. I couldn’t sort out which urge was stronger—to grab her or to slug her. Passion didn’t move me forward, and who knows where trying to slug her might have led? The last thing the restaurant needed was two ex-jungle fighters having it out on their verandah.
So inertia kept me in place. We sat chit-chatting, punctuated by long intervals of silence during which we gazed at the surf crashing along the beach below us, the foam picking up the just enough of the light bathing the deck where we sat that it danced grey against a vast, velvety sheet of blackness. We had a couple more drinks and something to eat, then reached an end to our tete-a-tete. I couldn’t bring myself to suggest spending the night together, still felt betrayed I suppose. I took her hand and walked her out to her car. “That’s a beauty,” I remarked. “How can a college student afford wheels like that?” Her Jag sedan made my modest little Vette convertible look like a toy. Well, that’s what it was, to be honest.
“I wanted red, which is good luck color for Chinese,” she said, “but dealer no had…did not had…red ones, so got grey instead.”
“Yes, but it’s very expensive. Your father must be giving you a good allowance.”
“One problem is, it need so much maintaining. Always in the shop, for thisses and thats. But lots fun to drive, I had very skillful driving tutor. I’ll take you for a ride on Mulholland Drive some time, show you how it drifts through curves. Your little car so cute! Very California! And such a red! Will bring you much luck! Jake, it so good to see you again. I am sorry we have difficult feelings between us. I hope in time things be better.”
I drew her to me and gave her a polite kiss—all that the circumstances seemed to justify. “Good night, Soh Soon. I’m glad you called. We’ll see each other more, I promise.”
Me and my promises. I didn’t see her again for well over a year, though the gap wasn’t deliberate. Because a few months later, Evanston called to see if I was available for an afternoon’s work on short notice. It was late in the spring of 1978 by then. Two Vietnam movies were all the rage, “The Deer Hunter” and “Coming Home,” showing the war from two very different sides. Jane Fonda claimed her flick, “Coming Home,” showed the true side of the war: Jane’s problem was, she never realized there was any other side. My personal vote went to Deer Hunter—surreal in spots, but it caught the flavor of the Nam I’d experienced.
Nothing illegal this time, Evanston assured me, just a friend who need a quick assist out of a tight spot, and who was prepared to pay well for an afternoon’s work. The part about “pay well” iced it. The inflation of the 70’s had hit high gear, and gas was closing on $1.00 per gallon—my finances gave up ground every day. I dropped my Desert Eagle into my briefcase, after making sure it wasn’t loaded. Might need it for effect, you never know. As an afterthought, I threw in my big combat knife. I hopped into the Corvette and tooled over to the address he gave me, one of those tall, mirror-faced office buildings on Wilshire Boulevard.
I arrived to find a crowd gathered out front. I wheeled the car into the garage beneath the building, past the hawk-eyed scrutiny of a pair of guys wearing sunglasses, scarves wrapped around their heads—lookouts stationed at the garage entrance. After parking far back away from the entrance, I walked up the ramp to scope out the situation, giving the lookouts a cheery wave as I passed them.
On the sidewalk in front of the building a line of people wearing ski-masks or head-wraps marched around in a long ellipse chanting: “Shah ess a mur-dur-ur! Shah ess a mur-dur-ur!” Some of them carried hand-lettered signs saying things like Down With Dog King, Kill Pahlavi Devil, Death to the Shah, PETREX + Shah is Evil, Hell to SAVAK Killers, and Khomeni Rules (whatever that meant). Several of the marchers’ signs featured pictures of some old rag-head guy with a long white beard. Other ski-masked people stood along the sidewalk, waved flags and banners and pictures of that same guy, cheered the marchers on, passed out leaflets or just loitered around. I sidled over to one of the LAPDs standing on the periphery and asked him what was happening.
“Iranian student demonstrators,” he told me. “Some kind of oil company in the building they claim does dirty business with the Shah. So they’re picketing it.”
“Ski masks in this weather?” I remarked.
“They claim if they were identified,
they’d be executed by the SAVAK…that’s the Shah’s secret police…if they ever returned to Iran. Maybe so. There’s enough guys around here snapping pictures…” he indicated a pair lurking on the outskirts of the demonstration with 35mm cameras in their hands as an example .”..that there could be something to it.”
“I’m supposed to meet a guy in this building. Any problem about getting in?”
“Oh no, not at all,” the officer assured me. “These guys seem pretty harmless, just out to make noise and get some press coverage, though I haven’t seen any TV crews show up. Compared to some of the rights marchers, this bunch is boy scouts. Don’t go out of your way to antagonize them, and you’ll be okay.”
I thanked him and went the long way around to the glass front doors. They were locked tight, with a squad of uniformed security guards standing behind them. It took some convincing to get them to open up, and as soon as I entered they re-battened the hatches. “Man, they going to kick ass today!” one of them exclaimed.
“They’ve been here before?”
“A bunch of times. Never yet actually tried to break in, but you know it’s coming. They gonna try and storm this place, no doubt about that.”
“With you guys on duty, they haven’t a chance,” I lied. “Say, I’m here on business, to see a Mr. Chet Alverson of Petrex Corp. Where would I find him?”
“That’s the dude they’re after!” one of the guards exclaimed. “He’s up on the 12th floor, locked in his office. Elevators right behind us.” I thanked them and left them, noses pressed to the glass front wall, eyeballing the noisy mob out front.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 26