by L. A. Knight
It was nearly eight p.m. by the time he arrived at the entrance to the resort. The last golden rays of sunset have bled into the crimson hue of evening, the trunks of the hotel’s palm trees illuminated with landscape lighting as the Volkswagen van wheezed its way around a circular entrance to the valet parking.
The valet—a Hispanic man in his forties—knocked frantically on Jacob’s window. “Deliveries are on zee north side entrance.”
“I’m not a delivery, I’m the entertainment.”
“Jess, well we don’t got any clown parking spots, so jews need to move this hunk of jit, okay?”
“Not okay. I’m a guest of Mrs. Kleinhenz—she told me to valet so I’m valeting. And be careful wth jit, jit’s a classic.” Jacob turned off the engine—only the engine continued to run until it choked itself into a burst of carbon monoxide and died. He handed the valet his lucky rabbit’s foot keychain, grabbed the suitcase holding the Bush dummy, and strode toward the hotel lobby in his rented tuxedo and matching black canvas Converse sneakers.
The concierge directed him to Salon A.
Chandeliers and dimmed lights, white tablecloths and waitresses circulating with tantalizing trays of hors d’oeuvres. Several hundred guests mingled in packs, the women in designer dresses, the men in their penguin suits.
Jacob accepted an offering from a waitress and filled a paper napkin with half a dozen pigs-in-a-blanket. Everywhere there’s lots of piggies . . . living piggy lives. You can see them out for dinner with their piggy wives . . . clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon. Never thought I’d be back mixing it with the hoi polloi. Bet more than a few of these blue-bloods had Lehman Brothers accounts. Wonder if any of them own a comedy club?
“Jacob! Over here!” Ruby Kleinhenz was sandwiched between an older couple, waving. The fund-raiser’s hostess was hanging out of a black satin dress, the neckline plunging clear down to her exposed navel, the fabric defying the laws of gravity in order to keep from revealing more than thirty percent of her tan cantaloupe-sized breasts.
John Lennon was right. Women should be obscene and not heard.
“Jacob Cope, these are my friends, Richard and Lois Babcock—”
The blood rushed from his face.
“—the Babcocks own Babcock Industries; they’re one of our biggest donors.”
Badcock? Richard . . . as in Dick Babcock? Holy shit, don’t speak.
The silver-haired gentleman with the dark pencil-thin mustache offered his hand. “Nice to meet you . . . Jacob, was it?”
Jacob shoved the pig-in-a-blanket in his mouth and shook Mr. Babcock’s hand. “Res. Rice roo reat roo, too.”
“And what line of work are you in?”
Jacob swallowed the glob of food in his mouth. “Entertainment. Comedy, actually.”
Ruby looped her arm around his elbow. “Jacob’s my after-dinner entertainment.”
Smiling nervously, Jacob held up the suitcase. “Ventriloquist. So, Richard, what does Badcock—” he cleared his throat, feeling Lois’s eyes on him, “—Babcock Industries make?”
“We’re into hi-tech instruments.”
“Like synthesizers?”
Mr. Babcock chuckled. “More like the kind of instrument you’d find on an Apache helicopter.”
“Ah, so you’re in the business of killing people.”
Mr. Babcock’s mustache twitched. “Only the bad guys who threaten the American way of life. We’re patriots, Jacob. I’m guessing you’ve never served your country in the Armed Forces.”
“Imagine there were no countries, Mr. Babcock. It isn’t hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for . . . and no religion too.”
Lois smiled. “Are you a poet, Mr. Cope?”
“No, ma’am. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
Lois frowned. Whispered, “Ruby, I think your friend is on drugs.”
Ruby winked. “Jacob is such a jokester. Oh look, Lois, I think they’re getting ready to serve dinner.” She kissed the Babcocks on each cheek, and then led Jacob to the head table, her elbow hooked around his arm. “What was that all about?”
“The guy builds weapons of mass destruction, and he’s rewarded. The world’s insane.”
“Jacob, who’s to judge what’s sane or insane,” she said, escorting him to his seat at the end of the table before taking the chair to his right. “My ex-husband was an attorney. He defended a lot of filthy-rich guilty people and donated a ton of money to charities that helped the poor. Did that render him a sinner or a saint? Who knows? All I know is that while I was raising his children and taking care of our home, he was banging his legal assistant. Do you know how I found out he was cheating on me? The legal assistant told me after she found out he was cheating on her. Insane, huh? And you know what I learned?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I learned that right and wrong is all about your perspective. Love thy neighbor . . . live and let live. I also learned that I don’t have to agree with a person’s politics to like them, only to suck their dick.” Reaching under the table, she groped his crotch, causing him to jump.
“Mrs. Kleinhenz, are you trying to seduce me?”
“Seduction is a game, Jacob. I don’t have time for games.”
“Okay then.” He squeezed her hand, guiding it back atop the table. “Why don’t you tell me a little about the charity you’re raising money for.”
She smiled, and then whispered into his ear. “This isn’t a charity, lover. It’s a thirty thousand dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner to benefit the Florida Republican Committee.”
Sweet Jesus, I’ve entered the lion’s den.
* * * * *
“OUR NEXT ENTERTAINER this evening is a well-known member of the Grand Ole Party; ladies and gentlemen let’s give a warm South Florida welcome to President George W. Bush and his bodyguard, Jacob.”
Jacob approached the microphone and stool to a standing ovation that quickly melted into laughter as the audience recognized the face of the dummy tucked over his left arm.
“Good evening. My name is Jacob Cope. For those of you in the cheap seats I’d like you to clap your hands; the rest of you can just rattle your jewelry.”
The John Lennon quote bombed.
“Um . . . before we begin, I feel it’s important that I let you know that I am not a Republican. I am instead a registered Libertarian.”
The puppet animated. “Hey, Jakester, what’s with the Libertarian bullshit? If I had known you were such a pussy, I would have never let you stick your hand up my ass.”
Laughs—sprinkled around a few gasps from the blue-haired biddies.
“Be a real man, Jacob. Join the Republican Party and we’ll give you a free assault weapon just for registering.”
Solid applause. God, they do love their meat red.
“Hear that applause, Jacob? These people love me. Think they care that al Qaeda attacked us on my watch, or that I led America into a $3 trillion war in Iraq, or that I deregulated Wall Street so the banks could lead us into the greatest depression since whatever that last depression was called? No, Jacob, they love me because I’m a real man. I got me a real man’s squint. Not one of those wacky Asian squints where it looks like I’m polishing my wood; I’m talking about a Texas league, Clint Eastwood kind’a squint. And I got me a real man’s walk—a bow-legged walk, like there’s something swinging between my legs that requires hourly swipes of baby powder just to keep from chafing. That walk got me Laura. Can we hear it for my wife, Laura?”
The audience applauded . . . unsure of where this was going.
“God, I love that woman, though she’s not the friskiest of critters. Just last night I walked out of the bathroom, naked as a jaybird. Laura took one look at my Woody the Woodpecker and started her usual whining, ‘George, not tonight, I have a terrible headache.’ ‘That works out perfect,’ I said. ‘I was just in the bathroom powdering my dick with aspirin. You can take it orally or as a suppository, it’s up to you . . . heh, heh,
heh.’”
A few laughs—drowned out by gasps from the members of the religious right.
Jesus, toss ‘em more red meat . . . fast!
“Mr. President, I understand you ran into Chelsea Clinton the other day?”
Boos.
The Bush dummy retorted. “Hey, come on now, she’s a married Christian woman. Being a devout Christian man I asked her, ‘hey, Chelsea, be honest—did you and your new husband ever have sex before you two were married?’ She winked at me and said, ‘Not according to Dad. Heh heh heh.”
Big laughs, followed by applause.
“Mr. President, have you spent time with many political celebrities since you retired?”
“Been keeping it on the down-lo, Jacob. Last week, me and Fat Ass Limbaugh were out at my ranch clearing brush when we saw my dog, Barney, lying on the trail, licking his balls. Limbaugh says, ‘gosh, Dubuya, I wish I could do that.’ I said, ‘Big guy, you’d better wait and see if he’ll let you pet him first.’”
More laughs—suddenly silenced by the presence of a cigar-smoking man standing by Table Three. “Who hired this liberal lackey? Debbie Wasserman-Schultz?”
Jacob’s eyes widened. Sweet Jesus . . . it’s Limbaugh!
“Honestly, folks, I’ve seen better acts at an abortion clinic.”
Gasps from several tables in back.
“Easy. I meant at an anti-abortion rally.”
Jacob worked the puppet, his heart pounding. “Hey Rush, how ‘bout I tell ‘em the joke you shared with us in the men’s room before dinner?”
“Joke? What joke?”
“Why can’t Helen Keller drive?”
“Obviously, because she was blind.”
“Nope. Because she’s a woman.”
Limbaugh slapped the table, hooting a red-faced laugh. “See? Now that’s funny. Stick with the women jokes, kid. Just watch out for the Femi-Nazis.”
The young woman in her thirties seated beside the conservative broadcaster abruptly stood and left.
“Aww, come on, honey . . . it was a joke. Bush got to tell his Helen Keller joke!”
“Thank you, folks. My name is Jacob Cope and I hope I passed the audition.”
BAD DOG
Nancy keyed in the front door ahead of Lana and Jeanne, the disturbance setting Sam to paw at the sliding glass door, the German Shepherd barking to get inside the house. “Can you hear the hairy monster scratching on my glass door?”
“I thought you were training him?” Lana asked.
“I have been. Watch.” She unlocked the back door, letting the excited dog in. “Sam, sit! Sit, Sam!”
The dog ignored her, more interested in licking and jumping on the two strangers.
“Sam, get down! Wait, let me get a doggie treat.”
“Aw, he just wants to play—don’t you, boy?” Using her open palms, Jeanne boxed with Sam, jabbing at his open jowls.
“Jeanne, don’t rough-house with him, he gets riled-up very easily.”
Sam nipped and bit, yapping a high-pitched bark as he circled Jeanne before suddenly sprinting around the house, knocking over a floor lamp on the second lap.
When the dog diverted into the spare bedroom, Jeanne pulled the door shut, trapping him inside. “Sorry, Nance. My bad.”
Lana shook her head. “What kind of dog trainer did you hire?”
“I thought she was good. Sam can sit and play fetch.”
“Those are basic tricks, not training,” Jeanne said. “This dog lacks any sense of discipline.”
“She’s right,” Lana chimed in. “And from what you told us at lunch, Jacob needs that same kind of discipline. Jeanne, isn’t there a guy in your beach combat training group that works with the Broward K-9 division?”
“James Adams. Nance, I’ll call him and find out who trains their German Shepherds and text you their phone number.”
“I don’t know. Things have been going real well down at the radio station; I’d hate to upset the applecart by introducing something . . . what’s that noise?”
“It’s the dog. Sounds like he’s chewing on something.” Jeanne opened the bedroom door.
Sam bounded out, an object in his mouth.
“That’d better not be my shoe!”
“Oh my God,” Lana laughed, “it’s a penis.”
“Oh, shit.” Nancy chased after the dog and her vibrator. She managed to tackle Sam on the sofa where a tug of war ensued, the device’s rubber testicles flapping in the German Shepherd’s face, the canine refusing to let go—until Nancy managed to switch the vibrator on, frightening the dog.
The radio psychologist slumped to the floor, holding up the mangled sex toy. “Looks like my ex, Dan, after you tasered him.”
The dog came over to lick her.
“Go away, I hate you.”
Jeanne helped Nancy to her feet. “I’ll get the instructor’s number and call you.”
Nancy escorted Lana and Jeanne to the front door.
Sam was waiting, wagging his tail.
“Now what?”
“He probably wants you to take him for a walk,” Jeanne said.
“Forget it.”
The dog barked, insistent.
“He’s smart.”
“He’s a pain in my ass,” Nancy growled, searching for the dog’s leash.
DUSK. A LATE afternoon rain shower has cooled the South Florida air.
The dog led Nancy on its leash, dragging her twenty feet before stopping to lift its leg to urinate, only to continue another twenty feet before it stopped again to pee.
“Stupid dog. Can’t you just do it all at once? Or are you just doing this to annoy me?”
Reaching the end of the block, they followed the curbed sidewalk round a five foot shrub that bordered a corner property when Sam suddenly became alert. The dog growled viciously, showing his teeth.
Before Nancy could react, a man in a dark blue running suit appeared. Startled by the big dog’s unexpected presence, the jogger tripped over the curb, falling on his hands in the street.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry. Sam, stop!”
The German Shepherd refused to let up, growling at the Caucasian man with the buzz-cut red hair.
The freaked-out jogger regained his feet and hurried across the street. “That dog is a menace! You need to do something about that animal or I’m calling the cops!”
Sam remained tense, growling softly as the frightened man continued jogging down the street.
“Bad dog! What’s wrong with you? Is that why you were left in the pound?”
Sam looked up at Nancy, wagging his tail.
* * * * *
NANCY KEYED INTO the house in time to hear the cell phone ringing in the kitchen. She answered it -- the dog slopping water everywhere as it drank from the bowl.
“Hello?”
“Nancy, it’s mother.”
“Mom? Where are you?”
“Acapulco.”
* * * * *
THREE TIME ZONES away, Sandra Beach stretched out in her private tub of mud, fresh lemon slices covering her eyes. “I’m staying at the Las Brisas resort as a guest of my new friend, Fahd Al-Khatani.”
“You’re dating an Arab?”
“He’s a Saud and he’s charming. We met on the cruise ship; he saw me whack my Chinese man-friend with a badminton racket and said he had to have me.”
“Mother!”
“Relax. He’s not kidnapping me . . .” She peeked out from behind a lemon peel, “are you kidnapping me, Fahd?”
The naked mocha-skinned man in the next mud tub over laughed. “Not yet, Sandra.”
“Fahd says not yet. So darling, are you pregnant?”
“God, no. Why would I be pregnant, mother, I’m not even married.”
“Who cares? It’s been thirty years since I held an infant in my arms, now be a good daughter and make me some grandchildren. I’d ask Lana, but your sister’s ovaries are as useless as tits on a bull. Tits on a bull . . . that pretty much describes Jan.”
“Well, when do you think you might be ready? You’re not getting any younger. Your biological clock’s ticking faster than a Muslim’s vest . . . no offense, Fahd.”
“None taken, my sweet.”
The dog barked, wagging his tail as he charged out of the kitchen to greet Jacob.
“Mom, I gotta run. Call me in a few days . . . just so I know you’re not being held captive.” She hung up as Jacob flopped down in one of the kitchen chairs, exhausted.
“You look tired. How was work?”
“Lousy. I hate Saturday shifts.”
“How did it go last night?”
“The gig? Not well. My material wasn’t quite suited for my audience.”
“You didn’t get home until three in the morning.”
“I got into an argument at the bar with Rush Limbaugh.”
“Rush Limbaugh was there?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking of using him as my next dummy. You can pretty much say any stupid shit and get away with it if you’re Rush Limbaugh.”
“What happened with Ruby Kleinhenz?”
Jacob averted her eyes. “Nothing. She hosted the event, I barely saw her. Anyway, the fence is paid for, so that’s that.”
“Good thing, too. Your dog attacked a neighbor tonight.”
“What?”
“I took Sam out for a walk and he growled at a jogger. He would have bitten him had I not had him on a choker chain.”
“Maybe the guy startled him? Maybe Sam was protecting you?”
“The man was jogging, Jacob. Your dog went after him. Just remember what I told you. Sam’s on probation. If he goes after anyone else you’ll have to get rid of him.”
SPEED BUMPS
Nancy stood at the dais, gazing around the lecture hall. From a high of several hundred attendees, her weekly W.O.M.B. “rebirth sessions” had dwindled to less than fifty. And the lukewarm energy exuded in today’s session did not bode well for next week.
Desperate for answers, she decided to skip the last workshop and find out why things were going south.