My mom'd still think you're too old for me. You're an adult and I'm a juvenile.
What if we met at the mall and went to the movies? he said. Would that work?
Sure, she said. As long as my mom doesn't know.
I'm gonna call you on Friday and set something up, okay? We'll maybe see a movie and grab a pizza and get better acquainted. Can you do it?
He could hear the excitement in her voice when she said, For sure. Call me at about six o'clock on Wednesday, okay?
Okay, Naomi, he said. I can't wait.
Me too, Clark, she said.
Malcolm felt good when he closed the cell and dropped it on the passenger seat. It made a clicking sound when it bumped against the box cutter. Looking at it made him think that it was too early to go home. His mother would be sitting there watching one of her stupid TV shows if she was sober, and she'd insist on making him a sandwich even after he told her he'd eaten already. She wouldn't believe him. She never believed him. If she was drunk, she'd forget and call him Ruben, and she might even try to stroke his hair again.
He was starting to get angry just thinking about it. He felt like masturbating to relax, but instead, he found himself driving around the residential streets. Then he drove to the shopping center and cruised the lanes farthest from the store. The last row of cars was in a rather dark area, and in that part of the lot, the pole light was not working. He saw some customers walking toward their cars. One was a shapely young Asian with a stylish black bob, pushing a shopping cart. He glanced at her and drove past. Another was an attractive Latina who looked to be thirty-something. He drove past her as well.
Then he saw a middle-aged silvery blonde carrying two bags of groceries. He thought about his new boss, Bernie Graham, who had put so many ideas into his head that evening. He thought about Bernie's advice to always have a story ready when you approach someone to pull a gag, as Bernie called it. He felt it again: arousal mingled with fear. He put the box cutter in his pocket and got out. He approached behind the woman, who had the hatch open on her Volvo station wagon.
She looked alarmed when he said, Ma'am, I think you dropped this.
He was holding a $10 bill in his hand. His broad, dimpled smile belied the rage and the exhilaration sweeping over him.
I didn't drop that, she said.
You must have, he said. It was right there by your car.
No, she said. It's not mine.
Finders, keepers, I guess, Malcolm said. Can I help you with your groceries?
No, thank you, the woman said. My husband is right behind me. In fact, here he comes.
Malcolm saw a man walking through the next row of cars and said, Oh, okay. Have a nice evening. But when he was walking away, the man who she said was her husband got in a car and started the engine.
Malcolm spun around, but the woman was in her station wagon with the engine racing and the headlights on. The Volvo backed out of the parking space and sped away while Malcolm stood and screamed after her, You bitch! You lying bitch!
Then he looked around to see if anyone had heard him. He looked for the security officer who patrolled in a golf cart. He was trembling and felt weak and light-headed. The rage lit his face on fire. He knew he had to go straight home to his bedroom and masturbate right away and try to sleep. If his mother tried to stroke his head, he feared he might kill her.
At 11:15 P. M., Flotsam and Jetsam in 6-X-32 got a message that said, Go to the station. Ten minutes later, they entered the sergeants' room, where Sergeant Lee Murillo sat at his desk. In a chair beside him sat Bootsie Brown, who'd tried to cash a dead man's check while the deceased sat in his wheelchair outside.
That's the one, Sergeant! the old black man said, still in the layered secondhand clothes he'd been wearing when last they'd seen him. He pointed at Flotsam and said, The tall one with the funny-lookin' hair. Then he saw Jetsam and said, They both got sissy-lookin' hair, don't they? Looks like they bleach it out, jist like the workin' ladies on the boulevard.
Flotsam was stunned, but before he could speak, Sergeant Murillo said, Excuse me, Mr. Brown, let me take a few minutes with the officer to hear his side of this. While you're waiting, would you like a cup of coffee?
I certainly would, Sergeant, Bootsie Brown said. And how 'bout a donut or somethin'? That food in jail ain't fit for a cock-a-roach.
Sergeant Murillo gave Flotsam a meaningful don't-ask-questions look and said to Jetsam, Officer, would you please get Mr. Brown a coffee and a snack from the machine?
What? Jetsam said, flabbergasted.
Just do it, Sergeant Murillo said. I'll explain later.
While Jetsam grumbled and bought Bootsie Brown his refreshments, Sergeant Murillo took Flotsam out in the hall and said, He wants to make a one-twenty-eight on you. Says you called him a name when you arrested him.
What's that grave robber doing here, Sarge? Flotsam said. Him and another homeless guy tried to cash a dead man's check.
Yeah, I know all about that, Sergeant Murillo said. I've read the reports and I'm doing my best to talk him out of the personnel complaint. We've got enough paperwork to do around here.
But what's he doing outta jail?
The DA refused to issue a complaint. Two old bums trying to get drunk and give their dead buddy an Irish wake? Nobody wanted to take that one before a jury.
Well, I never insulted the old bastard, not even once, Flotsam said. And now we gotta buy him coffee and a Twinkie? This is bullshit, Sarge!
I'll reimburse you for the snack. Let's just get through this, shall we? He says you called him frogative,' whatever that is.
What's frogative'?
I don't know, but he thinks it's a ten-dollar word that means he looks like a frog.
Sarge, I appreciate what you're doing here, but I feel like I gotta call the Protective League and get lawyered-up! I never called that old bastard anything!
Okay, stay real, Sergeant Murillo said. Do you remember him saying he was going to sue you?
I guess so. Hell, half the people we pop say that.
And what did you say to him after that? Try to remember your exact words.
The tall cop's brow furrowed and he looked up at the ceiling while his supervisor waited, and then he broke into a huge grin. Holy shit, Sarge! Flotsam said. Frogative!
Three minutes later, while Bootsie Brown was contentedly munching on a Toll House cookie and sipping coffee, Sergeant Murillo and Flotsam reentered the sergeants' room.
Mr. Brown, Sergeant Murillo said, how's the coffee?
Not bad, but the cookie's stale. How 'bout a Ding Dong?
Let's talk first, Mr. Brown, Sergeant Murillo said. Do you remember telling these officers you were going to sue them for false arrest?
Bootsie Brown paused with the cookie halfway to his lips and said, I mighta. It was a humbug arrest. That's why they let me and Axel outta jail in forty-eight hours. We was jist tryin' to have a Irish wake for good old Coleman.
And what did this officer say to you when you threatened to sue him?
He called me that name.
What name is that?
He said I was frogative.
Officer, Sergeant Murillo said to Flotsam. Please tell Mr. Brown what you said to him when he threatened to sue you and your partner for false arrest.
I said, Your prerogative.'
Frogative, progative, it's all uppity bullshit! Bootsie Brown said to Sergeant Murillo. He wants to insult somebody, he oughtta have the guts to use normal words and call me a asshole or somethin'.
You can go back to work, Sergeant Murillo said to the surfer cops. Then to the transient, he said, Mr. Brown, I'm going to explain to you how things work around here.
Does this mean I ain't gettin' a Ding Dong? asked Bootsie Brown.
Chapter THIRTEEN
TRISTAN HAWKINS HADN'T SLEPT well and had experienced strange and troubling dreams for most of the night. He'd smoked a blunt before going to bed in his east Hollywood hotel-apartment, where he'd lived alone
since the first of the year. The smoke hadn't really mellowed him, and it came back on him later, resulting in sleeplessness and nightmares. Somehow the tropical colors that the landlord favored, along with the rank, humid cooking smells from the Cubans next door, reminded him of a whorehouse in Haiti, an unpleasant memory from his short stint as a steward on a cruise liner when he was eighteen years old. It was a good job, but he'd gotten fired for stealing $20 from one of the cabins being tended by another steward.
Tristan had been wide awake since daybreak and lay there staring at the mildew stains on the plasterboard walls. After their surveillance of Kessler the night before, he'd completely lost control of Jerzy, and he was peeved every time he thought of how the dumb peckerwood threatened to throw him out of his own car unless Tristan let him go back home to his woman. And what was his home anyway? Just a shitty little two-bedroom house in Frogtown that Jerzy shared with a woman who was uglier than Shrek, and her four miserable brats.
If he had someone else he could use to help execute the vague plan he was formulating, he'd drop Jerzy in the time it took to make the call to tell him that his bitch looked like she belonged on WrestleMania, and that he'd take a bath in a tub of bleach if he had to sleep with that old hose bag. But he couldn't do that, and they were scheduled to meet Kessler at 5 P. M. back at the pest-infested duplex/office, where Tristan was supposed to tell him about the interesting new idea he had. The fact that he had no ideas at all wasn't of concern; it was how to handle Kessler after they informed the man that they were his new partners. The fact was, a little muscle might be needed to quiet Kessler down, and that was the main reason he needed the big Polack.
Kessler had been a letdown in any case. Tristan hadn't made $1,000 total in the weeks he'd been a runner, so even if the plan didn't work, he had very little to lose. His scheme was going to involve fast-talking and finesse, and that required his talents. Still, he wished he had one more ace to play. That's why he decided to return to Kessler's apartment today when he was certain the man would be away from it.
At 10 A. M., Tristan Hawkins was at a T-shirt shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where a non-English-speaking Guatemalan embroidered Department of Water and Power across a baseball cap that Tristan bought at the shop. For another $25 the Guatemalan stitched the same lettering across the pocket of the gray work shirt that Tristan had brought with him.
Just before noon, Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was sitting in his car in the parking lot of an electronics supply house in the San Fernando Valley, working a pair of runners who were purchasing three wireless $1,799 Dell computers with bogus checks that Eunice had printed, along with altered ID that Tristan had stolen on one of his forays to the Gym-and-Swim.
His Jakob Kessler cell chimed, and he picked up and said in his German accent, Jakob Kessler speaking.
It's Creole, Mr. Kessler, Tristan said.
Yes, Creole, what is it?
I just wanted you to know we might be a couple minutes late for our five-o'clock meet.
Sounding annoyed, Dewey asked, What is the problem, Creole?
I'm workin' a deal this afternoon for you, Mr. Kessler, Tristan said. If it goes like I think it will, I'll have some good stuff for you.
What time, then?
Five thirty?
All right, five thirty sharp.
We'll be there, Tristan said. By the way, where are you now?
Suspiciously, Dewey said, Why do you want to know?
We could meet you in the next hour if you're anywheres near Hollywood.
No, I am not near Hollywood. I shall see you at five thirty.
When he snapped shut his cell phone, Tristan smiled. He thought he could hear traffic in the background and was certain that the man was not at his apartment on Franklin Avenue. But twenty minutes later, Tristan was.
He was wearing the Water and Power baseball cap with his dreads tucked under, as well as the newly embroidered work shirt. And he had a clipboard in his hand with official-looking documents attached to it. He rang the gate phone of the old woman he'd conned last time.
He recognized the same raspy voice when she said, Hello, who is it?
Department of Water and Power, Tristan said. We're replacin' meters and need access, please.
The old woman said, Call the manager. She's in number one-three-two.
I know that, Tristan said, but there's no answer. I'm just goin' down the list, and you're the first one to answer.
Oh, all right, the old woman said. Are you going to have to come into my apartment?
No, ma'am, Tristan said. We'll only need access to the meters.
The gate buzzer sounded, and the lock clicked open. Tristan entered, climbed the familiar stairway, and was standing at the door of the last apartment on the left, number 313.
He rang and waited twenty seconds before ringing again, and he felt sure that someone was looking at him through the brass peephole.
The door opened a few inches, and Eunice said, Yes?
He saw bloodshot blue eyes and gray-blonde tangles of hair, and she reeked of tobacco smoke.
Department of Water and Power, ma'am, Tristan said with his most winning smile and taking great care with his diction and grammar. Have you experienced a power surge today?
No, Eunice said. Why?
We're havin' trouble with the load on this street, Tristan said. People have reported computers crashin' for no apparent reason, and we're checkin' with every resident we can. Do you have a computer?
Yes, she said.
Would you please turn it on and see if it's okay?
My computers are working fine, she said.
You're sure?
I'm positive, she said.
Okay, then, sorry to have bothered you.
When he walked away, he was excited. She had more than one computer. His hunch had been correct. She worked out of Kessler's crib. This woman was either a hired hand or his bitch, but for sure she was also his geek. Yes!
Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was angry at himself after he paid off his shopping runner, a young aspiring actor, full-time parking valet, and part-time thief. The kid had talked Dewey into waiting for him outside Chateau Marmont by claiming that within one hour, he could enter the hotel and talk a wealthy female vacationer into buying him a drink in the bar, where he would collect all the information from her credit card without her knowledge. He claimed that he'd even obtain her driver's license information and checkbook account number. Dewey, who felt sleep-deprived, remained in his car, eventually snoozing. After an hour, he awoke and entered the hotel bar but found no sign of his runner. He figured the bragging little sociopath had probably hooked up with a rich vacationer of either gender and was up in the room fulfilling their Hollywood fantasies.
Thinking of that handsome, young aspiring actor made him remember that he was to meet the other good-looking kid at the office. However, it would be difficult, now that he had to be Jakob Kessler with Tristan and Jerzy, and he would have little time to turn into Bernie Graham. It was at moments like these that he wondered if the elaborate disguises were worth it. But if not, it would mean that Eunice was right again, and that was too hard for Dewey to accept. He decided to leave the hotel and go straight home, become Jakob Kessler, and gather the things he'd need to turn Kessler into Bernie Graham. Then he got on the cell and rang the kid he knew as Clark.
Malcolm was on his lunch break when the cell rang.
Clark, Dewey said, this is Bernie Graham.
I hope you're not gonna change our appointment again, Mr. Graham. I need the work now. I can't wait any longer.
I just need to push it back an hour, Dewey said. Meet me at the address I gave you at six o'clock instead of at five. I'll put you to work tonight, and you can start earning some spending money right away.
Six o'clock, Malcolm said. At the office.
Right, but like I told you, it's not really an office. It's an apartment that we use for meetings and other things.
See you at six, Mr. Graham, Mal
colm said. For sure, right?
For sure, Clark, Dewey said.
Dewey drove straight home and found Eunice in a fouler mood than usual. He'd been hoping to lie down for another one-hour nap, but now he knew it would be impossible. She wasn't even happy when he told her that in the trunk of his car he had three laptops that he was going to deliver next Tuesday for $1,100 cash.
Eunice was wearing her favorite pink bathrobe and pajamas but no makeup, and it was 2:30 in the afternoon. Nothing's going right today, she grumbled, moving the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue and teeth while her fingers flew over the keyboard of computer number three.
What's wrong?
What's wrong?' the man asks, Eunice said to the ceiling. I'm stuck in this room working myself into an early grave while you're out all day doing God knows what and bringing home chump change. That's what's wrong.
Jesus, Eunice! Dewey said. It's getting harder and harder to do business. There's stuff all over the papers and TV these days about identity theft, and everyone's being more cautious. And please don't tell me how Hugo woulda had no trouble, because I'm telling you that Hugo never had to run up against the shit I'm facing.
She looked at him and said, Go in your bedroom and kill Ambrose Willis. You look even sillier than when you're doing the old Jew, Jakob whatsisname.
Jakob Kessler. He's an Austrian. I don't know if he's a Jew. I never asked him.
He sounds like a Jew to me every time I hear the phony accent.
Aw, shit! Dewey said. Just one little break sometime, Eunice. If you ever give me one fucking break, I'll probably have a stroke and die on the spot.
I should be so lucky, she said.
He went into his bedroom, slammed the door, and fell down on the bed, a bit alarmed by how his heart was thudding irregularly. Something had to be done. He was nearing the end of the line with her one way or the other. He desperately needed a nap, but he groaned to his feet and laid out his Jakob Kessler wardrobe and wig, along with the casual clothing of Bernie Graham that he'd take with him in an overnight bag. He knew that a quick change in the duplex/office would be tricky, but he didn't think that a kid like Clark would pay a lot of attention to details.
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