by Dan Taylor
“Go on then, tell me…”
“That you’ll never see Randy and Mary again. They’ll die terrible deaths, Jake. Terrible deaths. Oh, and you’ll never see Cole again, which might mean something to you if that fishing story was true.”
“I’m going to call your bluff on this one. With my contacts, I could hide Regan well. You know that. And I think that your guy in Africa wouldn’t consider getting Omar half a job.”
He sighs. “You’re not as dumb as you sound.”
“And you know what else?”
In a petulant voice, he says, “Go on then, tell me…”
“I’m the sole person on Regan’s will. So if I kill her, you need me.”
Regan punches me on the arm. I mouth the words “you know I wouldn’t do that, honey.” And she calms down some.
“We know both you’re not going to do that.”
“To fuck things up for you and to get Randy and Mary back, sure I would.”
“You wouldn’t do that to your wife.”
“Ex-wife. And I will, actually. You’ve forced my hand.”
There’s silence a moment. “You’ve got an hour to make your decision. You decide to hand over Regan, you get Mary and Randy back. Any other scenario and your goose is cooked.”
He hangs up.
Regan starts blaring at me immediately. “What do you mean you’re going to kill me…I’m your wife, Jake…your wife!”
“Relax, I just showed him I mean business.”
“What did he say at the end? The rest of it I got, because conveniently you basically repeated what he said, right?”
“Right. At the end he said that if I don’t arrange to hand you over within the hour, then I won’t see Mary and Randy again.”
She huffs. “Sounds like you did a terrible job negotiating.”
“I’m not going to hand you over to him. You’re all I’ve got.”
Her voice softens. “Aw, thanks, Jake.”
“Not like that. You’re the only currency I have in this shit storm. He needs the both of you, so that he can hand you guys over to whoever he’s been contracted by, so that he can force the both of you to change the heir of the O’Cain estate back to him.”
We sit in silence.
Then Regan says, “So do you believe him about that ‘within-the-hour’ stuff.”
“Of course I don’t.”
I lied to Regan. I do believe that son of a bitch.
22.
WE PULL UP OUTSIDE Jingle Jangles.
Regan says, “I’m not going inside.”
“You could’ve mentioned that a couple miles back, saved Ibrahim here the drive and me the dollars.”
“I already told you that I wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?”
“I would’ve noticed.”
Ibrahim coughs. He’s watching us in the rearview mirror. “To some other place, Jake?”
“No.”
Regan gets all agitated. “I’m not going inside. I’ve never been in one of those places. And I’m not about to start tonight.”
I think a second. “Ibrahim, pass me over your cell. I want to make a call.”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
“I knew you’d come to my way of thinking.”
“Fuck you, Jake.”
I ignore her, pay Ibrahim, then we get out.
As he drives off, Ibrahim says, “Remember, Jake, speed dial.”
I shake my head, and Regan says, “Does he think he’s living in a movie?”
“A bad one.”
We start walking to the entrance. I go to link arms with Regan, but she pushes me away. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making us look like a couple.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t, the patrons of this place will be all over you like hot sauce on a burrito.”
“Do you really think so?” She shakes her head in that way women do, making her hair dance in slow motion, before falling inexplicably into a better style than before.
“I know so.”
“Thanks.”
“It wasn’t really a compliment.”
“It kind of was.”
Regan links arms with me, and we go past the doormen. I recognize them as Sal and Jax. Sal says, “Jake Hancock, how long’s it been?”
“Nearly a week.”
He laughs. “Who’s the broad?”
“My ex-wife.”
He laughs again. “You’re always good for a laugh, Jake.”
“I’m deadly serious.”
Sal and Jax look at each other, nodding in appreciation.
Regan whispers, “You’re such a pig.”
“Wait inside by the entrance. Don’t go in without me.”
“Why? What are you going to do, have a dick-measuring contest with your buddies?”
“I’m just going to take a second to catch up.”
“After a week?”
“Just go inside.”
Reluctantly, Regan goes.
I go over to Sal and Jax. “Say boys, anyone comes asking for me, I’m not here.”
In unison, they say, “Sure thing.”
I catch up to Regan, we link arms, and then go inside properly.
Hollywood is the titty bar mecca. Why? Because its strippers are mostly comprised of out-of-work actresses. They tend to be impossibly beautiful, have bodies like the cast of Baywatch, and they’re trained dancers. Not like the ones out of town, who get by on looking slutty and having attended a couple of pole dancing lessons with some athletic but buck-toothed wannabe stripper who couldn’t quite cut it on stage.
We’re greeted by what looks like the shooting of a raunchy music video: Fake breasts with shiny hair draping over them. High kicks and snakelike hip movements from the stripper on stage. Flashing lights. Movie executives in suits sitting by the stage, holding out money like candy.
The out-of-towners sit farther back, supping the domestic beer they have on tap, high-fiving each other once in a while.
On one side of the stage is a party of Japanese businessmen. There’s a white businessman with them, the guy who brought them here, who’s grinning insincerely as he studies their enigmatic demeanors.
Regan says, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“If there’s one place we’re safe, it’s here.”
“And this place just so happens to be full of beautiful women exposing themselves.”
“Whatcha going to do?”
She elbows me playfully, then links arms again, this time tighter. “So what’s the plan?”
“We’re going to get one of the lap dancing rooms at the back, in which we’ll formulate a plan.”
“In which?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Should we get a drink first?”
“It would be rude not to.”
I leave Regan a couple feet from the bar, go and order drinks from Hugh, the barman, and I whisper in his ear. He looks unsure, but then I do a bit of explaining, which convinces him. He hands me a small white package, which he gets out of a bowling bag from behind the bar. Then I swing us one of the vacant rooms. But only until one of the ladies wants to use it.
For Regan I order a sparkling wine, and for me a glass of bourbon. I usually hate the stuff, but I’m in need of a stiff drink.
I’ve been thinking about this situation with Leo. Problem is, he thinks I’m bluffing about killing Regan, which would put the ball in Leo’s court. And he’s right, of course. For Regan’s sake, I’ve been trying to think of a way out of this that’s a win for everyone. But this situation’s like a Rubik’s Cube, make a turn to benefit one side and the rest of it gets fucked.
As we go into the lap dancing room, I’m pensive.
Before she sits down, Regan takes a long look at the material covering the divan sofa.
I say, “It’s clean.”
She perches herself on the edge. “So what’s your great plan?”
I rub my face. “I don’t have one as of yet.”
I lied.
“Thought so.”
“Everything I can think of involves putting you in danger. Using you as bait, that sort of thing.”
She doesn’t respond, just stares into space.
I move closer to her, take the hand that isn’t holding the wine in mine. “I just want you to know, Regan, you mean the world to me, even though we’re not together any longer.”
She’s skeptical. “Why are you telling me this, Jake?”
“Just in case anything was to happen to you, is all. Now drink up.”
Regan lifts the glass to her lips, but stops short of drinking, then she says, “What do you know that I don’t, Jake?”
“Nothing. Drink up and we’ll come up with a plan together.”
Again, she goes to drink, the glass touches her lips, but she doesn’t drink any of the wine. She lowers the glass. “If we get out of this unscathed and Omar, Mary and Randy Back, I’m going to give you a night to remember, Jake. I’ll fuck you broken.” She winks at me.
“That’s good, Regan. Now drink your drink.”
She does this time. She says, “Jesus, Jake, that tasted awful. You were never good at choosing wine, but that tasted nasty.”
I don’t reply, just wait. Looking sympathetically at her, still holding one of her hands.
After a minute or so of this, she says, “Well aren’t we going to come up with this master plan?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We’re just going to wait.”
She looks at my glass, and her eyes cross for a moment. “Aren’t you going to drink yours?”
“I don’t have the stomach for it, now.”
She goes to speak, but she nearly falls back. I catch her, take the glass and set it down on the floor.
“Jesus, I’m sleepy, Jake.” She yawns.
“I know you are, honey.”
“Do you think I could get a power nap, just recharge the batteries for five?”
“That’s a good idea.”
Regan starts giggling.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I haven’t felt this good in a long while.”
“I know you haven’t.”
Realization shows on Regan’s face. She looks down at her glass, her eyes crossed again. “What did you…? What did…?”
The drug that the barman passed to me to spike Regan’s drink with takes effect fully, and Regan slumps into my arms.
23.
Forty-five minutes later…
REGAN’S TIED TO AN office chair, neck limp, chin resting on her chest.
We’re in the north side of Hollywood, in a basement.
To my guy Peter Breckenridge, I say, “Is the camera set up correctly.”
“It is.”
“And is the angle just right?”
“Let me just double-check.”
He rushes over to a tripod, resting on which, taped with a bit of duct tape, is an iPhone, the camera app running.
He says, “Looks great, Jake.”
I look down at the gun in my hand, take a deep breath. “Okay, start rolling.”
Peter Breckenridge goes to press record, but there’s a problem. “We taped over the part of the screen on which the record button is displayed.”
I sigh. “Try pressing the part of the tape you think it’s under.”
He starts jabbing away at the tape with his index finger. “It’s not working.”
“Fuck. We need to hurry up. The sedative I gave her is going to start wearing off any moment now.”
“Should I remove the phone and hold it?”
I roll my eyes. “I think that would be a good idea, Peter.”
I pace anxiously as Peter Breckenridge pulls on the tape, trying to release the phone. After what seems like a lifetime, he removes it. Peter’s a Brit. He starts cursing in his clichéd accent. “Bloody hell, there’s glue residue all over the screen. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get this off. Do you think the insurance company will replace it?”
“Right now, Peter, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.”
“Good point.”
Frowning, he points the phone at me, being very deliberate in maintaining the shooting angle he’d set up with the tripod. “And…action!”
I go to speak, but stutter. “Shit, press stop. We’ll go again.”
“We’re still rolling…”
“Well press stop, try again.”
He frowns as he looks at the phone. “It didn’t start recording in the first place.”
He jabs the screen of the phone with his finger. “The glue residue’s making it difficult.”
I go over to him. “Give it here.” I take the phone. He’s right. The screen isn’t responding to pokes and prods. I rub some of the adhesive residue off. This time it works. I rush back into position by Regan, who’s beginning to stir.
Peter says, “And…action!”
“Fuck, Peter. We don’t want that in the video.”
He frowns, looks at me through his nerdy glasses. “Why not?”
“That’s a rhetorical question, right?”
“We’ll edit it out before we upload it.”
“Won’t that take time?”
“No, there’s a function on the camera app that allows us to do it quickly and efficiently…we’re still rolling, Jake.”
“Stop saying that.”
He doesn’t respond.
I breathe deeply, readying myself for my performance. I stare into the lens, start talking. “Leo, buddy. Hi—”
Peter interjects, “I don’t know about that as an opening line. It sounds a bit…conversational.”
He’s jarred me out of character. “Which bit?”
“The buddy bit.”
“That’s a reference to an earlier conversation, in which he referred to me as buddy. It’s poignant.”
“Yeah…still don’t like it. Try replacing buddy with motherfucker.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Will it shut you up if I do?”
“Still rolling, Jake…”
I shake my head. Set myself again. “Okay, you motherfucker! You’ve forced my hand.”
Peter mouths ‘good,’ and it puts me off. “Fuck, Peter!”
“Leo…his name’s Leo.”
“I’m out of character, speaking to you.”
“Still rolling…”
When I start my performance again, there’s no acting about it. I am pissed. “Okay, you motherfucker! You’ve forced my hand. I just want to remind you—solely for your benefit—that if I take this gun and blow Regan’s brains out, I become the heir to the O’Cain estate. Then you need me. And I think it’ll become obvious that I’m not fucking around. You think I’m bluffing. But guess what, motherfucker—”
Peter gives me a thumbs-up.
“I’m not.”
I hold the gun up, pull back the slide, readying the pistol, and then hold it to Regan’s head. “This is me putting the ball in your court.”
Peter starts to count down from five with his fingers.
When he’s on two, I whisper, “Sorry, honey.”
Then I blow Regan’s brains out.
24.
PETER BRECKENRIDGE’S TAKING care of Regan’s body while I wait for Ibrahim to pick me up.
We edited out the shaky start to the video—efficiently and easily with the app on the iPhone. Wow, those things are good…
I’m not going to send the video directly to Leo. I’m not that much of a dummy. Well…that’s what I wanted to do, but Peter went all pussy on me, told me that it might not be a good idea, with it being evidence and all. So we’re uploading it to a website called Vimeo as we speak. Peter’s using an account he’s just set up, which he filled out the application for and is accessing through a virtual private network (VPN). I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but this VPN masks the IP address and encrypts any data downloaded or uploaded to it, making it look
like Peter’s accessing the website from Canada. Peter says this is a good thing.
Once it’s uploaded, he’s going to change the privacy settings of the video, so it can only be accessed by a person or persons with an access code. The video won’t be able to be downloaded or embedded on any other website. Oh, and the nerds who use the website won’t be able to add it to their personal collections.
It’s basically a video version of Snapchat, but instead of people sending pictures of their junk to each other, people can video their junk and then send it. Or so Peter says.
Thank God I phoned him. It’s all Greek to me, but it sounds pretty important.
The long and short of it, is that Leo won’t be able to use the video to squeeze my balls. The only person who will be having his balls squeezed is Leo.
Anyway, enough about ball squeezing, he’s going to phone any second.
He’s phoning now.
“Jake, I take it you’ve made a rational decision during the time I gave you to stew.”
“Sure did.”
“Okay, great. I want you to take Regan to—”
“Regan won’t be going anywhere.”
He’s silent a moment. “Jake, buddy, I make one phone call and my guys start removing bits of Randy and Mary I think they’ll miss.”
“You might not want to do that.”
“The only way I’m going to change my mind is if you arrange to bring Regan to me.”
I pause dramatically. “Regan’s dead.”
Leo chuckles. To someone his end, he says, “Can you believe this guy?” Then comes back to me. “We both know that isn’t true, Jake. Come on, stop fucking around.”
“I’m not fucking around.”
“So you what, blew her brains out?” He chuckles again.
“It’s funny you say that, because that’s exactly what I did.”
“Nah…”
“It’s true. In fact, I recorded a video of it for you. I thought you might be a bit skeptical.”
“Okay, you send me that video, I can see that it’s a fake—if it even exists—then we can start having a sensible conversation.”
“I’m not going to send it. Do you think I’m that much of a dummy?”