by Bill Orton
Lena smiled.
“No, can you dance?” von Sommerberg asked again.
“I danced as a kid.”
“How long?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Seven or eight years”
“Why did you stop?”
“I didn’t want to be thought of as just a girl.”
“What kind of dance?”
“Ballet, mostly.”
“That’s really lovely,” said Lena.
“I think you will be the right one,” said von Sommerberg. “Will you please consider our offer?”
Lori sat on the sofa. December sat next to her. Larry sat beside December, who scooted close to Lori, taking her hand and setting it onto her own lap, and resting her own hands on top. “You haven’t really made an offer, but, okay, yeh, I’ll think about it.”
“Great!” said von Sommerberg.
“This is really great,” said Lena.
“You’ll be glad for doing this,” said the director. “We will make sure.”
“This movie will be really something,” said Lena. “We can tell our investors we really have something big.”
“Yeh, okay,” said Lori. “Whatever.”
“And me,” said December, “write something for me.”
“I don’t know,” said Lena, as December shucked her sweatshirt, revealing a tightly packed, clingy top that could not possibly have hugged her curving lines any more tightly.
“We’ll just have to figure out how,” said von Sommerberg, lifting the camera to his shoulder and throwing the red lamp on as he drew in tightly on Lori’s face, and December’s face and then back, sweeping across their bodies. He lingered on December, who did a slight shoulder shimmy.
Lena groaned.
.
“Are you ready?” said December, to the mirrored wall of the studio.
“Larry, close your eyes,” said Lori. “Please don’t look.” Lori stepped out of a small dressing room set into one of the mirrored walls of the studio, wearing only an extremely small, olive green bikini, with the word “ARMY” printed in small white letters across the backside.
“Yeh, baby,” said December. “Dat’s what I’m talking about. Turn around, baby.” Lori did so. “Oh, yeh. Lookin’ good, Soldier Girl.”
Larry, with his hand over his eyes, asked if he could look.
“I’m just wearing a swimsuit, Larry, but can you turn the other way....,” said Lori. “Please.”
“Thanks, hunny,” December said to Larry, as she got up and stood belly-to-belly with Lori, and put both of her hands on Lori’s waist. “Fits good. See? I’m thinking of my soldier girl.” She let her hands roam across Lori’s ass and down her thighs, digging her fingers deeply into the tight flesh. “Oh yeh....” December leaned into Lori’s chest and began to lightly kiss her skin.
“Now?” asked Larry.
“No, Bixie, please,” said Lori, pulling December by the hand to the dressing room, and closing the door.
When Larry asked “now” again, Emma replied, “Is Lori gone?”
He uncovered his eyes, turned and looked around. Soft moaning, seemingly too faint for Emma’s ears, drifted across the studio. “I think she may have just stepped out,” said Larry, going to the Victrola and winding the crank.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Golden Register
Emily Kashabara sipped from her Jack-in-the-Box coffee, as Ed Lossé and Larry van der Bix ploughed through the scattered wrappers on the table, searching for hash brown sticks, curly fries, egg rolls or mini-churros. I watched Lori sip her iced tea and thought back half a lifetime ago, when we were literally kids, piled into Larry’s car, pooling coins to afford gas and fast food. Her skin, then as now, flawless, never a blemish, honey-colored from the sun. She was always the strongest of the three of us, able to run, jump, throw, climb and anything else demanding strength and dexterity. And always humble, always gentle, always finding the way that something could happen, rather then wielding the needle to burst a balloon.
During our marriage, I thought things were going badly, when she thought they were going well. At first, all we could afford were small apartments, never a house. She would say, “look at how comfy we are.” Then as things finally started going well, she began to sour on the direction of our lives together. Finally a house, but she complained we were never together to enjoy it. When I pointed out the pressures on us, she’d say impractical things, like, “When we lock the door, we can lock the worries outside, too.”
Now, seated across the table, she was as beautiful as anytime I’d ever known her, her skin the color of toast, her hair full and flowing freely, and her body perfect, tight, muscled and youthful. It’s almost as though aging had passed her by, to visit later perhaps, but taking nothing up front.
Inside myself, a voice kept repeating that I needed her. My mistake always was telling her so. She wanted to be wanted – everybody did, she said – but she hated to be needed. I couldn’t see how there was a difference and the harder I tried to keep her, the more difficult it became to convince her to stay.
“Do we have to do fast food each time we meet?” asked Emily.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” said Ed, robotically moving seasoned curly fries to his lips.
“I like this place, but, yeh, no, sure, okay, whatever,” said Larry, popping a churro.
“There’s some decisiveness,” said Lori.
“We can rotate,” I said, alone at the table having nothing to eat or drink. “But we do need to move through the business here. Emily, you start…”
“Larry indicated his wish to create trust funds for him, his grandmother, and a couple others,” said Emily. Those are straightforward, and we can execute papers today and have final documents ready to file in time for the disbursement conference. While that may not necessarily cushion the initial tax hit, it will protect those assets from future liabilities. Emily drank from her coffee and, appearing to have spotted something, reached and picked up a mini-churro. She held it up in Larry’s direction, and, with his nod, ate it. “Much of the philanthropic giving — not for… the… artists — can be done with a foundation. I’ve drawn up articles of incorporation and by-laws for a basic foundation structure. Don’t have a name for it....”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about this,” said Larry.
“And…,” said Emily.
“Well,” said Larry. “I don’t know.”
“Real leadership, Bixie,” said Lori.
“The Bixie Fund,” said Larry.
“Lame,” said Lori.
“It’s not lame,” Larry said, sounding hurt.
“Not as a nickname, but c’mon…. How about, like, the Sunshine Fund?”
“Yawn,” said Ed.
“What do you suggest?” asked Emily.
“Fantasy Foundation?” said Ed.
“Gross,” said Emily.
“Only cuz you know Larry has some weird ideas of where to throw money,” said Ed, “but maybe his donations will make things happen that no one thought possible?”
“And it sure doesn’t feel real,” said Larry.
“I kind’a like it,” said Lori. “Fits Bix.”
“Can you draw that up, Ms. Kashabara?” asked Larry. “And please can tell me if I ever ask anything of you that is distasteful. I don’t want to lose a talented, smart, young professional just because you think I am being a pig.”
Emily appeared surprised. “I don’t think you’re a pig. Actually, you seem very respectful. But, okay, I’ll tell you if it becomes an issue, I guess.” She thought for a bit. “Thanks. Thanks for that.”
“Good boy, Bix,” said Lori.
“Okay,” I said, “so trusts, a foundation… anything more, Emily?”
As Emily outlined how Larry could avoid the 35% federal tax hit on all gifting over the $5.12 million level, I watched Lori pucker her lips around her straw, to sip her iced tea. It had been almost ten years since I last kissed Lori, and short of first dates and a fling with a fellow accou
ntant, it had been years since I regularly kissed anyone. Never had I felt more secure, more at ease, more fully loved then when I gave myself completely my wife. And yet I could count on one hand the times during the marriage when I had let go enough to feel loved that completely.
“And so the parks gift might not be accepted for this sort of tax-avoidance strategy,” said Emily. “We would have to submit the question for consideration at the disbursement conference.”
There was silence at the table. After a few moments, I felt a glancing blow to my calve and, by her expression, could see that Lori was reaching across to send me a subtle message. “Thank you, Emily.... Ed, investment report….”
“I’m recommending a greater liquid availability than most clients would normally feel comfortable with, as Larry seems like he’s ready to start moving dollars out the door,” said Ed. “This is going to mean there has got to be some pretty strict signature controls.”
“Got that covered,” I said.
“I’ve got a range of portfolio options that I’ve been emailing back-and-forth with Larry, Lawrence, and Emily, and the consensus, tell me if I am wrong, is we all like the stock index funds and bond mix.... Larry, yeh?”
“Uh huh, yeh,” said Larry.
“Okay,” said Ed, “we can put those signatures down upon receipt of the asset and get the State to route funds directly. He sat up and rubbed his hands together. “But what I like is that even the liquid portions fit with where Larry seems to be going, as we have sufficient reserves that we can work with currency holdings… and so the Euro, the Yen, the Pound, the Kroner and some others give us the chance at return and to park assets, and then when we’re talking about investment into Larry’s personal ventures…”
“Like with Ewa or Anekee,” said Larry.
“Anekee?” I said.
“… van der Velden,” said Larry.
“Some hot-blooded, furious Italian model,” said Ed.
“Investing in her is to build a charismatic personality cult that fawns over everything she says,” said Larry.
“Mostly likely while they’re staring at her tits,” said Ed. “Granted, not the typical business model, but also not unprofitable, if done right.”
“She’s really opinionated,” said Larry. “It’s really exciting.”
“Okay, yeh,” said Emily, “you’re being a pig, kind of.”
“Him, maybe,” said Larry, pointing to Ed, “but I know Ane. She’s way more than what people see up front, but all people say is, “Oh, look at them…. Fake or real.”
“Piggy-ness is kind of a fine line, Larry. Hard to walk next to it and not fall in,” said Lori.
“Have I been a pig about December?”
“Larry,” said Lori, “you shot a frickin’ web cam show with her climbing on top of you.”
“W’ull,” said Larry, as Emily gasped, “that’s how she makes her…. So if someone didn’t go to college – and can’t, cuz she’s a Dreamer – and has other ways of making money, legally… somehow that’s bad?”
“We’re not talking about Dee being bad,” said Lori. “It’s about being a pig.”
“You know,” said Ed. “We’re not going to solve this here. Our client is going to blow money. Probably a lot. Some will be completely wasted and all he’s gonna have to show for it is memories. You know, it’s his money. We’re all gonna do good for him as long as this gig lasts, so, Larry, take your time…, go slow, but we won’t solve the piggy debate here, so I’m gonna finish my report and hand it back to Lawrence.”
Larry opened his soda cup and took in a mouthful of ice, which he promptly chomped loudly. “Sounds good to me,” he said.
“Please finish, Ed,” I said.
“We have the liquid funds in currency. We have consensus on the mix of funds vs. bonds vs. equities. Last point is do we want any real property’? Some of that would fall under the foundation and trusts, but how ‘bout it, Larry?”
“What?” said Larry, his cup now tipped upside down as he tapped on the bottom to get the last of his ice.
“Wanna buy houses? Office space? An island somewhere?”
“An island?” said Larry. “Why would I want an island?”
“Chew on the property question,” said Ed. “Maybe there’s a special space you’ve always wanted, or some building you thought it’d be cool to work at.” Ed started stacking debris onto his tray. “That’s it for me.”
“Lori,” I said, savoring the word as it came out. “Anything?”
“No, just that I may not be sticking around much longer,” she said, “Might be re-upping.”
“In the army?” I said. “Again?”
“I might,” she said. “We’ll see.”
“That’s pretty cool,” said Ed. “Brave shit.”
“Yeh, whatever,” said Lori. “I’m good at it. Like it. Works for me. We’ll see.”
“What about the movie?” asked Larry.
“The movie?” asked Emily.
“These filmmakers from Denmark want Lori to star in a movie they’re making,” said Larry.
“Star?” I asked. “Those two we drove down with?”
“Do you have a contract?” asked Ed.
“When you get an offer, show me the contract and I’ll go over it before you sign,” said Emily.
“Me and Emily can help negotiate terms,” said Ed. “I love dealing with entertainment people. They’re fuckin’ wacked.”
“Lawrence,” said Larry, “what about you?”
“I don’t know anything about movies.”
“No,” said Larry, saving me. “The meeting…. Your report.”
“Signature control,” I said. “Cashflow.”
“I’m not getting a vault,” said Larry, “but I get the whole vault-and-register thing, so I think we’re on the same page there. And I appreciate the level of concern you’re showing, Lawrence, to make sure that I don’t totally just blow everything I’ve won.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s, um, really well said. Thanks.”
.
Larry van der Bix waved awkwardly to Emily Kashabara, as she entered Modica’s deli, from Ocean Boulevard, as though she might miss him in the small dining room otherwise. She set her small bag down on the plastic chair at the table, leaned her skateboard on the chair and sat in another, across from Larry and next to the wide, plate-glass window that overlooked the stretch of downtown where once squeals from the Pike could be heard.
“Thanks for joining me,” said Larry. “Thought you might like a place with metal forks and interesting cheeses. The pastrami’s good here, too… like, really good.” He pointed to the next room, with its glass case of marinated asparagus spears, basil with sliced tomato and mozzarella, multiple pasta salads, and a shelf containing plates each with a slice of dark chocolate mousse cake or a pair of filled cannoli. Emily took her wallet into the next room as Larry drank soda water and flipped through the local weekly paper, the Grunion Gazette, stopping at a piece about the future of the Queen Mary.
“Nice selection of sandwiches,” said Emily, sitting down and setting plastic number onto the table, alongside Larry’s.
“So, a question,” said Larry. When your mom got into trouble with the tax board, did it mean she couldn’t be in business anymore?”
Emily raised her eyebrows. “Uh, well, um, she closed her video business, but business people tend to be business people, so it didn’t take her too long to figure out another line, and she opened another shop. She’s doing antiques right now, though that’s pretty slow. The recession and all.”
“Yeh,” said Larry.
“As long as she is paying rent and can turn a profit, then the only person she has to report to is herself,” said Emily. “Sort of envy her in that way, but it’s a really scary idea to me. She’s carrying a lot of debt. I don’t think I could do that.”
“You’re a lawyer, though,” said Larry. “Don’t you owe a ton of student debt?”
“But that’s different.”
> “You and her are still carrying debt. Whose is bigger?”
“Mine, probably. Almost $80,000. I don’t even want to think about it.”
A white platter with a pastrami sandwich as long as an arm and just as wide, with melted Swiss and gloriously yellow mustard dripping from the edges, cut across the conversation.
‘My God,” said Emily.
“It’s even better then it looks,” said Larry. “It may be the best pastrami sandwich you’ll ever have in your life. In two lives.”
Another platter, with a grilled sandwich, a side of asparagus, tomatoes and a small plate with a slice of dark chocolate cake replaced the number Emily had set down,
“What’ s that one?” asked Larry.
“Roasted bell peppers, goat cheese, dried tomato, basil and greens,” said Emily.
“Sounds healthy.”
The two ate joyfully.
“So where’s your mom’s shop now?”
“In Hermosa Beach,” said Emily. “Kashabara’s Place.” I told her it was a so-so name, but she said people still look her up that way, so….” Larry broke his sandwich apart and offered a three-inch section to Emily, who nodded while working on her own sandwich, but when done chewing added, “there’s no way I’ll ever finish this.”
“That’s why God invented styrofoam,” said Larry.
As Emily bit in to the pastrami, she rolled her eyes upwards slightly and gave out a soft groan.
.
Larry and Ed wandered through the business machines aisle of Antique Warehouse, stopping occasionally so Larry could poke the buttons of gray or yellowing metallic or plastic cash registers.
“So how serious are you about these models?” asked Ed.
“I haven’t seen a model here I like,” said Larry.
“No, Ewa Sonnet and your Italian friend with the big blood.”
“Hot blood.”
“I bet,” said Ed. “So, what’re you gonna do for Ewa Sonnet? Finance an album?”
“Well, maybe,” said Larry, “or try to break her in to the U.S. market.”
“I checked her out and as best I can tell, the girl can barely speak English,” said Ed.