by Tony Bulmer
We drove back to Brentwood with the windows down, feeling super relaxed, so relaxed there were no complaints about wind mussed hair or disagreements about radio stations. The sound of southern California enveloped us. The afternoon was beautiful, golden. But as the sound of sixties psychedelia flowed around us I sensed a dark, pulsing undercurrent of fear and decay edging in from the desert hills. Thoughts of poor dead Mimi swam through my head. Where was her father, what must he be thinking? What would I do and feel if one of my beautiful, crazy children were to… I pulled myself up short, checking my mirrors, expecting to see a purple-flake Chevy Tahoe cruising in my wake. Nothing—just the throb of the drive time pack. No way that Rothstein’s hired thugs could follow me in this kind of traffic.
As I cruised Sunset through Pacific Palisades, towards the former matrimonial home, the sun was already hitting the mountains, sinking fast into the LA night. The old neighborhood looked time-slip alien, a vision of a previous existence that already seemed to be a lifetime away. Thinking that I too had once lived her in this palm fringed Spanish-style enclave of mini-mansiondom seemed bizarre and unworldly. From the immaculately manicured lawns, to the white washed adobe. This was a realm of wealth and success a realm to which I had once aspired, or more accurately Kimberly had aspired for me. She had insisted after the Washington gig was done. Let’s move back to Los Angeles. No one loves a presidential motorcade quite like the Angelinos: wealth, stardom and fabulous success, the maxims that the City of Angels is built on. Business had come easy with that Presidential connection: Danny Costello—the Secret Service guy from Washington. Cobra Close Protection had to turn business away. And now? The dream had always been Kimberly’s, so it seemed strangely fitting that she should be using my money to live in the style to which she had always dreamed of—Inspirational house, inspirational lifestyle, inspirational friends. That had been the problem, once she had it all, the means by which she had got there became surplus to requirements. Her family and friends had always known that Kimberly could do better—move on up to a more fitting relationship, commensurate with her social standing. I of course, had been too busy to see it coming. But now, as I drove past the perfect drives, filled with perfect cars, I knew that this life wasn’t me. I liked things blue collar simple, with a slice of home-baked austerity. I had seen my Pops work too many years for too little money, to ever feel comfortable living in this kind of luxury. Truth was, I liked it just fine down at the beach: my dog, my friends, my apartment—the things that mattered to me. I smiled to myself, as I pulled up front of the house. It was good to be on the outside, free to do what I wanted.
Are you OK Dad? Dakota staring at me. Paris looked up briefly from her texting and realized she was home. It was always hard dropping them off. The girls were the only thing I missed. Not the house not Brentwood and certainly not Kimberly. As I ushered the girls out of their seats and into the driveway the lawn sprinklers kicked off, soaking my trousers. The girls squealed, high-kicking it across the lawn, holding handbags and consumer electronics aloft, to prevent a soaking. I bawled a hearty farewell across the glistening lawn, as they headed for the door.
As I was giving them the see you next week ladies routine, A 12 cylinder engine came throttling down the Boulevard. The roar was unmistakable. I headed back for the Dodge but it was too late, the Ferrari came barreling towards the driveway and cut a squealing turn in front of me at the very last minute. I hoped the boyfriend would be alone. I was disappointed.
‘You are late.’ Not even out of the car yet and already the first criticism winging it’s way towards me.
‘Hi Kimberly.’ I thought I would keep it polite—simple, no room for argument or misinterpretation.’ Steve popped open his door. His face lighting up when he saw me. Steve was a good guy—simple, affluent beyond his ability to deal with it, but a good guy none the less. He came bounding towards me, like a love struck Labrador. Steve always worked the handshake hand-jive. A combo greeting that left no method of welcome to chance. He gave me the works: the clasp, the slap, and the embrace. Steve was a tactile guy. Ultra-tactile, and so floppy-fringed loveable, it was impossible to hate him. He was a snappy dresser too, in a Bel-Air smart-casual kind of way: white trousers, shirt split to the waist, with a canary-yellow cardigan draped over his shoulders. He was still at the embrace stage when Kimberly flounced out of the Ferrari. She shot me a poisonous stare.
I gave her the famous Costello smile. ‘I would love to stick around and shoot the breeze with you kids, but I got to go.’ Kimberly twisted her high gloss-lips with disapproval, an acid comment roiling across her tongue. I watched her swallow it down. Steve looked disappointed, like I’d just ruined his dreams of an evening of Xbox and S’mores, followed by a nightcap of hot-tub twister. Mr. cynical. Kimberly had never appreciated my smart-mouth. I interpreted her lack of humor as an inability to connect. She said, successful people should be more serious, something I never subscribed to. Maybe I should have seen the warning signs years ago. Kimberly sneered, like she was reading my mind, then turned heel dismissively and stalked up the driveway.
Steve smiled apologetically. ‘Later dude.’ He scampered after her.
Still wearing sunglasses, I thought. It is dark, and he is still wearing sunglasses. I watched, as the front door opened, and my former family disappeared inside with the west-sides most stylish billionaire. You can never be too rich or too stylish, Kimberly had always reiterated that maxim. Maybe I should have paid closer attention, bought my clothes on Rodeo Drive, like she had told me. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The thoughts gave me a cold shiver. I started up the Dodge. The engine throbbed heavy, and I pulled away into the enveloping night.
THE SEX NET 26
Encino. The San Fernando Valley. Frank Rothstein lived south of the boulevard. The classy side, where the villas look French and Italian, none of that modern crap those Persian freaks built in the eighties and nineties. Frank hated the modern crap. Modern crap had no class. To be classy, truly classy, a home had to have a touch of the old country about it. Not that Frank new much about the old country, his folks were from back east. Brooklyn, New York to be precise. But Frank was sentimental. He liked the stories his Grammy had told him about Eastern Europe, about Budapest, Hungary. She had a leather-backed album with a big metal clasp, containing hard plate photos of the family. She used to show him it since he was a little kid, took it off the high cupboard shelf, when he went around there Sundays. Hard to imagine these people from a fairy-book past were actually his relatives. They looked like sepia-tinted freaks, in their crinolines and starch-collared monkey suits, and those hats—check out those fucking hats. Of course the past was important. You had to know about the past, in order that you never had to go back there.
Frank sat poolside. He contemplated the palm trees and the mountains beyond. He liked living in a walled compound, like the Garden of Eden, but with more servants. He relaxed back into his easy-comfort patio chair and placed a tiny china espresso cup back in its saucer. He arranged it carefully on the table napkin, next to his copies of The Wall Street Journal and Institutional Investor magazine, so that the white linen tablecloth didn’t pick up any unwelcome stains. His Grammy always worried about stains. Spent her whole fucking life worrying, like that would do any good anyway. Frank hated worry. He hated problems. He thought all his worries were over the day he put a bullet in his father. How wrong could a guy be? The shit you have to deal with in life is literally never ending. No sooner had he popped a cap in that bullying fucking loudmouth, when Uncle fucking Sol gets made in his place, and back to square one, except this time the old bastard has the juice to make life even more of a misery than it is already.
Frank thought about that fucking goombah psychiatrist he had been seeing. She thought she knew all the answers. Deep breaths she said. Deep fucking breaths. As if that is going to help when your Uncle, your own flesh and blood, is making your life a living fucking nightmare. Course Sol had never said anything about Pops. What could he know? Frank had been
careful, always very careful. You don’t get to run a family business, without learning to be careful. There was no way Sol could know, really know, how his favorite brother had died. Frank allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He had been smart about that one, framing that crooked cop, giving him a steel jacket pay off, so the dirty freak wouldn’t go shooting his mouth off. Frank smiled wider. Yeah, Uncle Sol thought he was smart, but he wasn’t that fucking smart and sooner or later, he would get his too. Trouble was the old bastard was like a fucking mind reader or something—he had that look, like he could tell what you were thinking.
As the California sun beat down, Frank felt a chill. Uncle Sol could never know. Things were moving. Frank knew he would have the diamonds, and soon. When he did, it would be time to move on up, get Uncle fucking Sol off the scene permanent like. Then the business would be his—to do with as he pleased—Finally.
As Frank contemplated a happy future, free from his Uncle’s interference, the help brought them in. The Driver and the Linebacker. They looked uneasy
‘Hey, look who it is, Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumberer.’
‘How’s it going Frank?’
‘You want to know how it’s going? I’ll tell you how it’s going, not fucking well. I told you guys to watch the boyfriend low-key, see if he knows where my merchandise is. I told you to keep a low profile, so that I can work my business with the minimum of attention. Instead, what do I get?
The Driver and the Linebacker looked at each other uneasily.
‘I get you chasing around town in your pink fucking clown car.’
The driver stood awkwardly, hands clasped front and centre, ‘The car is purple-flake Frank.’
Frank Rothstein leaned forward quizzically, ‘What did you say?’
‘It’s the color Frank. Purple-flake.’
‘I tell you shmendriks to go low-key and you trail Danny-fucking-Costello, a secret-squirrel muscle-neck, in a pink fucking car?’
‘The car is purple.’
‘So you say, but it fucking glows—you are driving around town—following this Costello putz in a glowing fucking car. Now you tell me schlemiel, you think this fucking guy is going to see you, or no?’
‘It ain’t our fault, the prick crept up on us Frank, out at the girls place, he is a sneaky motherfucker Frank—and nasty with it—he hit Diego here, up-side the head with a god-damn telephone…’
‘On the head you say, with a telephone?’ Frank Rothstein leaned forward, out of his easy-comfort-patio chair, peering closely at the Linebackers bruised face. ‘He hit you good dumb-ass, only I would have hit you harder. Much harder.’ Rothstein folded back into his chair, regarding the two thugs closely.
‘Now listen here boys, I like you. I know this Costello is a slippery motherfucker, I can attest to that. So here is what I am going to do. I am going to give you Chiam-Yankel motherfuckers another chance. Only this time, I want you to take it smooth. No girls in carpets. No hosing down the homes of seniors, with your pea-shooter fucking Uzi like you are on some degenerate TV show.’ Rothstein leaned forwards again, his brow furrowing upwards.‘ You understand me?’
‘We don’t know anything about no Uzi Frank, honest we don’t,’ said the Linebacker.’
‘Sure you don’t kid, now go get in your pink car and get the fuck out of here.’ Frank watched them go, through narrowing eyes, ‘Just a second, one last thing before you leave.
The Driver and the Linebacker turned in unison.
‘Entrada road. You genius’s know where that is?’
Exchanging glances The Driver said sure, they knew where Entrada road was, in the park, just off Topanga Canyon right?’
Rothstein smiled for the first time. ‘You got it. So listen up. That little matter of the misplaced merchandise, let’s just say my enquiries are drawing to a close, which means our business will be at an end. Now I don’t know if you boys are the live and let live type, but you got to know—that Costello prick is still walking around, talking about you guys like you were some kind of joke. Now you might be prepared to just let that go, I dunno. What I will tell you is that your fee will be waiting for you tomorrow at the parking lot on Entrada. Now if anything unpleasant were to happen to Mr. Costello between now and when you guys collect your fee. That is none of my business. But know this, come what may, there will be a nice little bonus for you in there, along with one-way tickets to Aca-fucking-pulco. Now get the hell out of here and take that cop-magnet queer-mobile with you.
They turned uncertainly, not sure if Frank was kidding. Frank was holding his hands wide now, like he was weighing invisible sacks of diamonds. But the expression on his face said something else. The gaze was cold, unrelenting, pitiless.
Frank watched them go. He muttered to himself, unintelligible oaths. What had he been thinking? These guys were morons—beyond morons. He watched them slouch down the pathway by the pool, disappearing into the lush thicket of palms near the villa. It just wasn’t possible to get freelance help these days, the kind that was smart enough to tie its own shoelaces. Frank masticated noisily—the nicotine gum tasted like double-dipped dog shit. He reached out to the linen covered table, edging the handle of his big chrome plated 45. inside the pages of The Wall Street Journal, with the tip of his index finger. That fucking goombah psychiatrist had said, Always look on the bright-side. On the bright-side, he wouldn’t have to hose moron-brains off his imported Italian flagstones. On the bright-side that smart mouthed prick Danny Costello was heading for an appointment with a body bag. Frank sank back into his easy-comfort patio chair and finally allowed himself a smile. He closed his eyes and let the hot afternoon sun flood over him.
‘Frank?’ A dark shadow blocking the sun.
Not opening his eyes, Frank said, ‘What now?’
‘I’m getting lonesome Frank, it’s no fun being cooped up at the house all day. I want to go out. I want to go shopping.’
Franks eyes slatted open, he adjusted his sunglasses. The girl was wearing the silk robe he’d bought her, it gaped open at the front—underneath she was brown-skinned, naked. He summoned up a bright-side smile. Corin Cabrillo was beautiful. Homecoming-queen beautiful, but she had a spoilt, petulant side to her that was deeply unattractive.
THE SEX NET 27
Juan Carlos Martino sat in a beige Honda Accord, in the strip mall parking lot, scratching his tattooed neck. JC wasn’t happy losing money, on the purple-flake Tahoe, but if Frank Rothstein tells you to do something, you better take notice and fast, JC part-xd the Tahoe at a downbeat auto-dealership on Ventura Boulevard. The place was sleaze-ball city, Low-end rides for ready cash customers. The stock choice was strictly bottom of the barrel. It ate into him, that he had to make a deal at such a place, but time was running short, and it was better to flip the ride for cash, than torch it in a parking lot in Chicano town, where was the percentage in that? The chisel-faced prick in the front office thought the Tahoe was jacked. Tried to burn him for five G’s on the asking. The dealer’s eyes nearly popped out of his prick skull when he saw the pink slips. But the Tahoe had corpse stink all over it. No kind of valet makeover could get that out of a ride, even at Canoga Carwash. JC told the dealer his dog got sick in the back seat, but soon as the chisel-faced prick got a snoot full of Diego, he was too busy holding his breath to ask any more dumb-assed questions.
The Tahoe had been Diego’s idea. JC couldn’t believe he had listened to him again. The kid was a real mouthpiece. Had a way of saying things that made you believe, whether you wanted to or not. Diego said he had connections, just the kind of hook-ups a man needs when he gets out the joint. Diego had hook-ups all right, but they were all strictly small-time: small-time dope, small-time whores and small-time jacking. Hanging with the kid was getting to be a real drag. Worst of all Diego had got them a gofer-gig with: San Fernando Valley’s Mr. Jewelry, Frank Rothstein—gofer this, gofer that. JC had Rothstein pinned. The cat was low-class. Thought he could talk down to people, thought he was a big shit-don’t-stink gangster, be
cause he had East Coast connections and a fancy spread out in Encino. Bullshit. JC felt the reassuring bulge of the snub nosed Smith &Wesson in his waistband. The only thing he liked about Frank Rothstein was the cats money. A smile edged into the corners of his mouth. He was going to get himself a slice of that cash, if he had to blast it out of the prick personally—and Diego—well the kid was just going to have to look after himself, and too bad if he didn’t like it.
JC’s eyes narrowed, staring, as Diego came bouncing out of the Taco Store, across the lot. The kid had a jailhouse walk, you could see coming from Juárez. JC watched him as he came, pigging-out on fried food again, some kind of jalapeño sandwich, smothered in greasy sauce. How could the kid eat that kind of shit; wasn’t he worried what it was going to do to his insides? And that smell. Hell, the kid needed a shower bad. All that sweat and fried food smeared all over him—the stench was unholy.