Just look at this Jellwagger, would ya? The poor bastard had been caught with his pants down, an apt metaphor considering he’d just stepped out of the shitter. No, he hadn’t actually taken a shit. As you saw at the end of the last episode, he’d parked himself in that stall just to get some privacy while Carla read him the riot act. Speaking of that stall, it just occurred to Jellwagger that it wasn’t remotely as nice as he thought it would be, considering this was Spago, the joint that had tiny pieces of napkin lint that made more money than Jellwagger. He’d expected, this being a place like that ‘n all, that the bathroom stall doors would be made of platinum or something. Or at least gold. But nah, these were just your average bathroom stall doors.
Whereas he hadn’t needed to go to the bathroom a second ago—hadn’t felt the teensiest bit of pressure in either his bowels or his bladder—suddenly our very own Jellwagger had to crap cinderblocks. Yet he couldn’t exactly go back into the stall. He’d just stepped out, giving the impression that he’d just finished putting the kids in the pool. If he went back in and actually did his business, this guy at the sink would’ve no doubt thought he was a weirdo. Of course it was this guy whose presence had kicked Jellwagger’s lower GI tract into high gear in the first place. And as far as his thinking Jellwagger was a nutjob, it was no doubt too late for that. How much of his conversation with Carla had Pat Dinner heard? While Jellwagger stood there like a moron, waiting for Pat to say something, to look up at him—anything!—Pat was tapping on a pill bottle like it was a salt dispenser until two tiny pills tumbled into his palm. Jellwagger focused on the pills for a second to see if they were blue. Was the richest man in the biggest city on the planet unable to get it up? But no, Jellwagger wasn’t that lucky. The damned pills were white. The bottle was that kind of brown translucent type that prescription meds come in. Pat popped the pills in his mouth, pocketed the bottle, and used his hands as a cup to slurp some water. He then splashed his face. This was the first time Jellwagger noticed bags under the man’s eyes.
So what the hell was going on here? Had Pat really not heard any of Jellwagger’s conversation? Did he not know who Jellwagger was? If he’d even heard just the last part of the conversation, it would’ve been enough time to recognize his ex-wife’s voice on the other end. Those goddam walkie-talkies were louder than hell. If you’d heard Carla talk just once, from there on after you could’ve instantly recognized her voice coming out of a walkie-talkie through a stall door. The things were that loud, and her voice was that distinctive. Maybe he was playing it off, though. Maybe the smug bastard was only pretending not to know. If so, he was a terrific actor. Look at him for Christ’s sake, pretending to be all worn out and in need of medication. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Jellwagger somehow knew that those nondescript little pills weren’t just for something temporary. Those were meds that Pat had been dropping on a regular basis since forever ago, and he’d be on them for the rest of time. So that part of his performance was authentic. But that whole splashing his face bit and looking beat to shit? Come on, Pat! Who are you fooling? There was no doubt he was a smart bastard. You didn’t accumulate his level of wealth by being a bad actor. So fine. Jellwagger would play along. He’d pretend he had no idea he’d just been made by the man he was supposed to be stalking.
Jellwagger puckered his asshole to push the turtle’s head back in, walked up to the sink next to Pat, and started washing his hands. Pat, meanwhile, splashed his face a few more times before drying himself off. He didn’t dry himself with paper towels, mind you. Or with the auto dryer. This was when Jellwagger first felt a twinge of admiration for the old man, a twinge which, as you’ll see, grew over time. Patrick Dinner wiped his face and hands with his tie. Jellwagger figured that shiny silver and black tie cost the goateed carrot top dumper a small fortune, probably more than Jellwagger had earned since birth. Lots of men in Pat’s position would’ve been anal about the cleanliness of their wardrobe. Jellwagger had been working around high-priced attorneys for years. They never in a million millennia would’ve been caught dead drying their face with their tie. Yet here was Pat Dinner not giving a shit. He was too lazy just to reach over a few feet to the paper towel dispenser. Jellwagger could empathize with that kind of laziness. We all could. Who hasn’t had one of those days when, at the end of it, you’re just too God damned tired to exert yourself even by a few feet? Say, maybe this Pat Dinner guy wasn’t acting after all. Jellwagger took his time lathering up his hands and rinsing them off, every few seconds shooting a furtive glance at Pat’s face in the mirror. Pat was still acting like he had the bathroom to himself. How was Jellwagger supposed to continue following this guy? First he’d been terrified that he’d lost him. Now he was right next to him, but had to figure out a way to continue the tail without giving it away. Assuming Pat hadn’t already made him, that is. Jellwagger held his hands below the auto dryer. Did Pat really have no idea who he was? He was pulling out his pill bottle when the dryer turned off. While reading the label, he said: "Dump ‘er, my man."
Pat’s voice practically threw Jellwagger against the cold wall for two reasons. First, it had been totally unexpected. That son of a bitch! He really had been paying attention to Jellwagger that whole time. He knew the score. Give the man an Academy fucking Award. No, really. Jellwagger wasn’t being facetious. The man’s acting had been impeccable. As for the second thing that hurled him against the wall, this dude Pat Dinner didn’t sound at all like what you’d think. You’d think, right? That he sounded mature and distinguished. That he’d have the voice of, you know, a man or something. A human adult male in his forties or fifties or however old you have to be to have that much frost in your goatee. Instead, he sounded younger than Jellwagger. In fact, if Jellwagger had had his eyes squeezed shut when Pat had said "Dump ‘er, my man," he would’ve seriously thought the guy was a college frat boy. No joke, Pat Dinner did sound that young.
While Jellwagger remained pressed against the wall, Pat shoved the bottle back into his pocket and chuckled. In the bathroom’s enclosed space, his laugh sounded more annoying than ever. And then, finally, at long last, he looked at Jellwagger. Wow, the dude’s eyes were green. With his dark hair and all, they stood out like whores in a nunnery. "Can’t bear to be apart from her, can you? I know how that feels."
"She told me to do this."
Pat slid his hands into his pockets, looked down at the sink, and chuckled once again. Damn him! "I know how you feel, my man."
"Dude, I am so not kidding. She told me to do this. This whole fucking thing is her idea."
"And I say again, I know how you feel." Now he turned his body to face Jellwagger. He maintained eye contact but tilted his head to the side just a smidgen as if still not entirely sure from what species Jellwagger hailed. "She’s controlling you, my man." He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound. "Another tool."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"I should string you up by the nut sack for being a disgrace to the male species."
Jellwagger’s heart became a bowling ball that sunk him to his knees against the wall. Oh Jesus fuck, he thought. He’d never complain about being a law firm marketing department data entry clerk again. That is, if he could get out of this mess. If by some miracle he did, he’d never complain about being lower than mud, too low to have reached the bottom of the totem pole. Jellwagger imagined himself back at his desk in the Sanwa Bank building. He was an anonymous peon, sure, but there was something to be said for that. It didn’t involve breaking the law, for one. And it afforded him time to listen to Bruce Willis reading Sigmund Freud so he could nail the dialogue for Exit the Danish. That life, which Jellwagger had been bemoaning not so long ago and was no doubt about to vanish when Pat called the Beverly Hills cops, sounded so sweet right now.
"Do you even have a nut sack?" Pat Dinner was saying. "Good God, my man. On your feet. On your feet! What are you doing down there?"
"It’s her fault." He didn’t care about betraying Carla. The bitch had left him out to dry. Sure, maybe he did stalk her for a week. But what harm had come of it? She obviously hadn’t been too irked if she knew about it and still led him on for seven days. Hadn’t he paid his dues by now? Apparently not, judging by their most recent exchange. So fuck her. If he was going to sink, she sure as shit wasn’t going to stay dry if he could help it. "She organized this whole thing. I swear to God."
Pat jingled the keys in his pocket and smiled down at him. It couldn’t have been more bizarre. The man’s smile was so paternal and warm, but Jellwagger couldn’t shake the fact that the man sounded like an underage frat boy trying to find the next kegger. "First of all, my man, get the hell up. If you and I are going to have a man to man, I require you to stand on your own two pussy feet. Now up!"
Still feeling like a block of granite had made its home in his chest, Jellwagger pushed himself up until he felt blue in the face.
"Easy, my man. I know how you feel. You feel controlled. You feel like however much time you’ve been this woman’s tool will amount to nothing more than time you will never get back. That’s all you think it is right now, right? A waste of your life. True, I don’t have much respect for you at the moment. Not for some puss who’s going to be some bitch’s tool. And what a bitch she’s obviously been to you, judging by that little bit I heard when I walked in."
"Obviously." Jellwagger’s voice was shaking.
"You’re crying?"
"What are you going to do to me?"
"I’ll tell you what. If you cry, then whatever I was going to do to you before is going to get far worse."
Jellwagger somehow managed to stem the tear flow before a single drop trickled out. Whatever Pat’s intentions were, his saying that last bit was just the impetus Jellwagger needed to gain control of himself and man up. With a calmness that surprised even himself, he said: "Are you going to call the fucking Beverly Hills cops?"
"The what?"
"What do you think I said, you brilliant rich bastard? The Beverly Hills bastard cops. Are they your best friends or what?"
"Wait a minute. My man, are you drunk?"
"Just call them and get it over with. I’m a sicko stalker, apparently."
Pat bent over and deafened Jellwagger with his howling cackle. Jellwagger wanted to punch him. Just as that frat boy sound-a-like was bending over and slapping his knee, Jellwagger could have easily leaped up with a fist to his jaw. "I get it, I get it. She dumped you before, and you were following her. Then she caught you and called you a nutjob. And then you came to this place to drown your sorrows. You obviously don’t belong here, judging by the way you’re dressed. Still, you’ve got taste. Either that or you wanted to go somewhere where no one would know you. I’m sure Simon took care of you."
"You know that money-milking asshole?"
"Hey! Watch it, my man. Simon’s all right. He’s good people."
"He ripped me off! And who in hell’s ever heard of Spaten? Did I ask for Spaten? Fuck Spaten!"
"How much have you had tonight?"
"I had Spaten. And he also somehow brainwashed me so I’d order broth that must been laced with gold judging by how much it cost. And I inhaled—"
"I’m not interested in what you ate. I want to know how drunk you are. How many beers did you have?"
"Two. No, three. That fucker served me three."
Pat’s smile looked like it was about to explode into another heaving laugh. "And you’re drunk on that? My man, you are what they call a featherweight. Simon went easy on you. Well, that’s understandable. He probably pegged you as a puss the second he saw you."
"Get down there and blow me, Mr. Trump. Or call the police and get it over with."
Pat cackled and slapped Jellwagger’s shoulder. "Tell you what I’ll do. You ready for this? I’m with a group of guys out there. We had dinner here tonight and were just heading out when I had to rush back here to take my meds. I’ve got to take this stuff every night after dinner, no exceptions. But anyway, that’s not important. What’s important is that we were heading out for a little post-dinner cocktail hour. Happy Hour’s before dinner. My gang and I do Happier Hour. Why don’t you come with us?"
"You mean like to a titty bar?"
"I absolutely love the way you think. No, just a regular bar. I think you’ll like it."
"You’re not going to call the Beverly Hills cops on me?"
"Why are you such a glutton for punishment? That bitch may think you’re a psycho stalker, but you’re good people with me. By the way, what’s your name?"
"Jellwagger."
"Jellwagger. That’s an incredibly interesting name. I’m Patrick Dinner. You can just call me Pat." An elderly man came in to use one of the urinals just as they were shaking hands. "Now listen to this, Mr. Jellwagger. Why don’t you come with us? You got somewhere you need to be?"
"Only my job."
"Call and tell them you’ll be late. We can’t have you showing up to work this sober. Three beers? Please. I guarantee I’ll find you a better drink than beer. Something smooth and brown. You like Irish Whiskey? Or Scotch? We’ll get you good and drunk and I guarantee you’ll have a good time. You’ll like what I can do for you."
"Jesus H. God damned Christ," said the elderly man at the urinal, whose prostate had reduced his stream to a dribble. "What has Spago come to? I remember when this joint had class, I really do. Now look at it. Even the fucking bathrooms are falling into disrepute. Wait’ll I tell Simon about this."
It wasn’t until Jellwagger was walking out with Pat that he finally accepted the fact that Pat really, truly, unbelievably had no frickin’ idea who he was. He’d hurried into the can to take his meds and caught that last snippet of Carla and Jellwagger’s spat. So he probably heard her leveling the stalker thing on Jellwagger to blackmail him. Of course Pat couldn’t have deduced from that alone that he was working for Carla. And he hadn’t heard enough of her voice on the walkie-talkie to recognize her. Holy shit! Not only was Jellwagger in the clear, but one of the richest dudes the Milky Way has ever known was going to get him drunk. By the time they reached the front of the restaurant, Jellwagger’s step had a bounce that he couldn’t suppress in spite of the oodles of frowns aimed his way. To his right was Simon toiling behind the bar. And to the left, in that courtyard area, Goldilocks was waiting the tables as efficiently as ever. "Why are you skipping, my man?" Pat asked him while looking at everyone else. He caught Simon’s eye and nodded at him. Simon looked back and forth between Pat and Jellwagger as if he couldn’t believe it.
Jellwagger decided to exploit the living shit out of Simon’s bafflement. He stepped up to the bar, squeezed himself between two of the gorgeous older gals who’d given him a woody just a few minutes ago, and leaned across until his face was only a foot or so from Simon’s. "Thanks so much for everything, Simon. Now Pat Dinner and I are headed out to get drunk on his dime while you continue busting your starch-shirted ass here."
Instead of offering a comeback or throwing a punch, Simon continued drying the shot glass in his hand and smiled. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, pal, okay? Don’t show up for work too drunk or, trust me, they will be able to tell." He finished drying the glass, put it away, and helped the next customer. When Jellwagger rejoined Pat, he noticed Goldilocks bending over to pick up someone’s fork.
"Seriously, why are you skipping? It makes you look girly."
"Speaking of girls, aren’t you going to ask Goldilocks to join us?"
Pat looked over and spotted the waitress. "You mean Goldie?"
"You’re shitting me. Her name’s really Goldie?"
"I know her parents. Goldie’s good people."
When they reached the sidewalk, Pat’s three dinner companions immediately gave him grief for having taken so long to take his meds. They were waiting next to a limo that was all black, including the windows. "Everyone, let me introduce you to a youngster with the most unique name you’ll ever hear: Jellwagger. Mr. Jellwagger, these are my drinking buddies. Come on, we’re already late for Happier Hour. We can do formal introductions later."
"What about my Shitty Shitty Bang Bang?" Jellwagger asked. Everyone looked at him.
"Didn’t you just take a dump?"
"My Mazda, I mean. It’s parked here."
"The limo will bring you back. And I’ll give you cash for the valet. I’m sure money is what you’re really talking about here."
Pat started yapping away with his pals as soon as they all climbed into the limo. Jellwagger tried to follow what they said, but it was all about their work and the people they worked with. That, combined with the smoked windows which were all the blacker for it being nighttime, made Jellwagger feel lost in every sense of that word. This was all happening too fast. What in Christ was he doing in Pat Dinner’s limo? What made him think going out and having drinks with his new boss’s ex-husband was a good idea? Sure, Carla wanted him to continue the tail, but this was way overboard. Even worse, something told Jellwagger she knew this was happening. Based on that last fiery exchange alone, she obviously didn’t trust him. Neckman was probably following him. He turned around and tried to discern the faces behind the various pairs of headlights.
"So what’s she look like?" Pat was saying. "Hey. The Honorable Mr. Jellwagger."
"What?"
"See something you like back there?"
"You’re right, Pat," someone said. "He is afraid of the cops."
"The Beverly Hills cops?" Jellwagger said. "They’re here?"
Pat laughed that stupid God damned laugh. How could his friends stand it? "You know, Mr. Jellwagger, I honestly think you want to be caught."
"It’s just Jellwagger."
"What did you do? Did you hurt that girl?"
"He obviously did something," said that same voice. It was coming from the other side, where the seats abut the wall separating them from the driver. "Look at him."
"You still haven’t told us what she looks like. Your ex-reason-to-be."
"She’s a carrot top for starters."
They all erupted in cackles. My God, just listen to them. Now there wasn’t just one, but four unbelievably irritating laughs, all within a few feet of him in this closed in space that only enhanced the whole grating effect. That’s exactly what it felt like, grating. Jellwagger’s ears were two hunks of cheese being shaved to bits. Was that the whole deal with money? The more you made, the more irritating your laugh became? Judging by these four fuckballs, the answer was a deafening yes.
"Jee-Zuss!" said the suspicious guy yonder.
"Now there’s your problem, my man," said Pat, draping his arm around Jellwagger. "Redheads. Hasn’t anyone ever told you to avoid them like the IRS? I happen to have some personal experience in that department." He lowered his head a bit to glare at Jellwagger like some old schoolmarm glaring at a student who couldn’t answer the most obvious question on a quiz.
"Don’t we all?"
"Ha ha ha!" Pat Dinner said. "Yes that’s true, I suppose. You really are my man. You really have your thumb on the pulse of things."
"Are you being a smart-ass, Pat Dinner?"
"It’s Pat, and no I’m not. You’re a bright kid, I can tell. But you don’t think you are. In fact, it’s never occurred to you that you might have more intellect than sponge fungus, but since people treat you like sponge fungus, that’s what you’ve come to believe. You’re one of those poor sonsabitches who actually takes. For granted! That he’s a worthless piece of shit."
"Not another speech, sir," the suspicious guy said.
"Where are we going?" Jellwagger said.
"When was the last time you got major league tanked, my man?"
"I have to go back to work." Jellwagger glared at the suspicious guy’s silhouette on the other side of the limo. "That’s why I’m worried, by the way. It’s not that I’m wanted by the law, I just have a deadline."
"That doesn’t explain why you looked out the back window."
No one said anything for a second. Jellwagger’s neck itched for him to do a one-eighty one more time just to confirm that he couldn’t see anyone behind him who resembled Neckman or, heaven forfend, Carla. But really, why bother? Why give that mysterious weirdo over there more fuel to harass him? And what difference would it make if he did spot Neckman or Carla? What would he do about it? It would mean they’d been following the limo since Beverly Hills, and now they were just getting to downtown. So the damage would already be done.
"You really are worried about your job, aren’t you?" Pat smiled at him. "Don’t worry, my man. You’re my man, right? Believe me, I understand the importance of deadlines more than most people. You won’t miss yours."
They drove to somewhere right smack in the middle of downtown, just blocks from the Sanwa Bank building. At least that was something, Jellwagger thought while getting out of the limo with Pat and the gang in front of a hotel. Once Pat decided to let him go, he wouldn’t have far to get to work. But wait. What about Shitty Shitty Bang Bang? Christ, what did it matter then? He’d have to take this God forsaken limo or a taxi back to Spago to get his car. As with worrying about being trailed, though, he’d have to play it off. Besides, shouldn’t he be honored to be treated to after-dinner drinks by these people? Wouldn’t everyone at Powell and Powler kill to be where he was right now?
The four of them tore into the hotel lobby as if they too had a tight deadline to meet. Even though Jellwagger was the last to get on the elevator, he somehow let himself get shoved to the back. Did one of these guys have a suite here? Was Pat entertaining out-of-town business associates? Maybe Pat had a suite here where he took his buds and hired strippers.
When the elevator door dinged open, Jellwagger immediately saw that it was none of the above. They were on the roof. Not only was there a bar up here, but a whole lounge area with brightly colored chairs. And a pool. Yes, a pool. And people were indeed swimming in it, here and now at eleven o’clock on a weeknight. While following the gang toward a bunch of banana yellow chairs on one side of the roof, Jellwagger looked at the backs of the other three heads and wondered which of these guys was convinced he was a fugitive. When they got settled around a low table, Pat sat opposite Jellwagger and started blabbering about money matters with one of his pals. When the waitress, barely dressed and barely legal, arrived to take their orders, Pat waited for his pals to name their nectars before he ordered for both Jellwagger and himself.
"Lava Rule?" Jellwagger said.
"Lagavulin, my man," Pat said. "You’ll love it. Single malt scotch, aged 16 years. One glass of that stuff’s all you’ll need and your productivity at work will skyrocket tonight. You’ll scorch that deadline. Spaten was a good warmup."
"You’ve heard of Spaten?"
"My God, my man. You really do fancy yourself a piece of shit. Stop asking such obvious questions. Anyone who hasn’t heard of Spaten can only be a retard. But anyway…" Pat turned back to his friends and continued to blabber.
"So you’d never heard of either Spaten or Lagavulin until tonight," said the one friend of Pat’s who was not taking part in the blabbering. He was sitting next to him, an Asian guy with hair perfectly combed and slicked back. His was the suspicious voice that kept taking jabs at him in the limo. Jellwagger tried to give him an indignant look, but thanks to the crushed-ice breeze up here, his face felt like the only looks it could make were either blank or baffled. "How’d you like Spaten? The Germans know how to brew the good stuff, don’t they? But just you wait. The Scots aren’t so bad in the spirits department. In fact, we might be laughing at you as you fall on your ass after you have just one Lagavulin. You’ve never had scotch before, have you? At all? It seemed at first that Patrick was taking a liking to you. I have no idea why, but who am I to read every single thought process in that nut’s head? Because you see, maybe I was wrong. If he’s insisting that you have a glass of Lagavulin with him, maybe he’s trying to undo you."
What the hell was this guy talking about? Jellwagger sure as hell didn’t have a clue. He looked out at the view that no doubt all the partners at Powell and Powler took for granted every day. This was the neighborhood he’d been working in for four years now, and he was just now discovering it. How was that possible? Did it reflect fundamental flaws in him? What was Pat talking about back in the limo about Jellwagger taking for granted that he was no higher up the food chain than sponge shit?
"He owns all this," the suspicious Asian guy was saying. "Not all if it perhaps. But most of it. He won’t admit it, but I think that’s why he likes coming up here. If you’re going to be his new best friend, get used to it. He won’t let a month go by without a view from this table. But don’t worry if you get sick of it. In fact, speaking of a month, that may be how long you last."
The waitress came back with their drinks. Pat clinked his glass against Jellwagger’s, and they each took a sip. Pat let out a gust of satisfaction and held his glass up with a look of adoration. Jellwagger gagged while a river of lava liquified his guts.
"Don’t let too much time go by without taking a sip, Mr. Jellwagger," Pat said. "You don’t want the ice melting and watering it down too much. You might think you do, but you don’t. Trust me. I’ve secured many a business deal because of this divine juice. And yes, relatively speaking, it is pretty much juice. Take it from me, my man." He laughed, damn him. "I’ve had my share of scotch and whiskey. You want fire, I can show you the real fire. This isn’t it. This stuff’s smooth as a baby’s belly."
And what? The belly comparison was supposed to thin out some of the lava? "It’ll keep you warm," said the suspicious well-coiffed Asian guy between sips of his light beer.
Jellwagger took another sip, stymied the cough, and entertained the possibility that the Asian guy and Simon were in league. Seriously. What a complete asshole.
"What an asshole," the Asian guy said, holding up his beer and showing it the same affection Pat had shown the Lagavulin. Then he looked at Jellwagger and smiled. "Right? I’m not a telepath, but then again I don’t have to be. Your thoughts are more transparent than this beautiful brown bottle. The truth is, you’re not far off. But if it’s all right with you, I’d prefer you not address me as asshole. My name’s Sam T. Lee." Instead of holding out a hand to shake, Sam held out the over half-empty beer bottle. "Here. Pretend my right hand is a hook that looks like a brown bottle of light beer that makes you feel bloated but without all the carbs. Come on, shake it! Shake the light beer!" Sam was cracking himself up.
Jellwagger shook the end of the bottle and said, "You loaded already, Sam?" He was only being facetious, but Sam nodded.
"You have no idea, you poor lackey." He had a shit-eating grin plastered on his shiny, clean-shaven face. "Pat really wants you to sip that steadily, by the way. Come on. It’ll keep you warm. You need to stay warm or Pat’ll get worried."
Jellwagger obliged and found that Sam was dead on. Nursing this fire juice was, in fact, spreading a healthy crackling fire throughout his body. Either that, or it was dissolving enough of his brain so that he’d no longer feel the arctic gusts. Or maybe it was both. Yeah. In fact, the more sips he took—taking them with more frequency—the more he bought into that theory. The Lagavulin was keeping his innards warm, his stomach and organs and everything. But it didn’t stop there. Now it was spreading out to the fingers in his empty hand, then the fingers holding the guilty glass. And it was somehow getting up to his brain. How was that possible? His stomach redirected everything downward, not upward. Or was it sending signals or something? That’s how it registered everything, right? All the pain and all the pleasure that he picked up with sight, sound, taste, and all that? It all came from signals. Maybe that’s what was going on now. His stomach was enjoying the Lagavulin so much that it was shooting signals up to the gray stuff that said the juice was the shit.
So Patrick Dinner owned all this, eh? Downtown Los Angeles was the sandbox and swing set for one Patrick Dinner, ex-husband of Carla Houde the comet-headed madam whom Jellwagger had stalked and who was now paying Jellwagger to stalk this dude. It was beautiful. For the first time in his life, Jellwagger could see just how beautiful downtown was. The buildings were truly works of art. Wow, how long do you suppose it took to build those motherfuckers? Not to speak of all the stuff inside them. He himself worked inside one of them. You couldn’t quite see it from here, but it was there. Jellwagger didn’t need to see it. He could easily imagine the green Sanwa Bank letters on the flat side of the building facing the Harbor Freeway as Jellwagger and trillions of other commuters came pouring out of the Valley every weekday morning. Did Pat own that building? And had he been responsible for those fantastic cubicles they all worked in? Obviously he wouldn’t have actually designed them. He wouldn’t’ve done jack shit in terms of the actual work. But maybe he signed off on them. Maybe that gorgeous goateed man had to review each and every God damned schematic and drawing and whatnot.
The waitress arrived with the next round of drinks.
"I really shouldn’t," Jellwagger said.
"It’s on Sam here," Pat said.
"Okay, you’ve twisted my arm." Jellwagger winked at Sam. "You were right, Sam T. Lee. I feel all warm and cozy and whatnot. It’s like a magic potion."
Sam, meanwhile, downed half of his second light beer in one swig. Then he said: "And I can’t believe you and Patrick met in the fucking bathroom, man. You met in the bathroom."
"He told you that?"
Sam cackled. "You told me, sir. Just a second ago. Don’t you remember?" He cackled again. "My God, sir. You don’t remember, do you? You’re just babbling all kinds of shit and you have no idea. How long are you going to stay mad at Jo?"
"Who told you about my sister?"
"You did, J. Robert Oppenheimer. Right after you mentioned you met Pat in the bathroom and how Jo would’ve killed you had she caught you making a fool of yourself in the can. But then you said you wouldn’t give a shit because she was lying to you about how your dad died or something. You said all of this just a few seconds ago, you drunkard."
"You look like you’re about to topple over, my man," Pat said, scooting over to Jellwagger and clapping a palm on his shoulder while beaming at Sam. "Mr. Lee, what have you been doing to him?"
"Me, sir? Not a thing, sir. Ha!"
"You know, I was just thinking," Pat said. He downed the rest of his Lagavulin and flagged the waitress. Jellwagger slumped back in his chair.
"Oh God, not another. It’s so good. Not another."
"Third one’s the charmer, my man. Now listen up. While listening to my colleagues over yonder blowing hot air out of their bung holes, the most brilliant lightning bolt idea split my brain in two like it was some ancient centuries-old oak just asking for it. Standing all smug and shit as king of the forest, complacent with itself, those fucking roots just digging down into the center of the earth until it thought there was nothing in the world that could move it, all massive and dark and ancient and dominant and shit, just asking for a healthy dose of gigawatts straight through the noggin. And then, on a day when the sky otherwise looked clear, there come the gigawatts. There they come, straight down and frying the noodle quicker than flies flock to my late Cocker Spaniel’s shit."
"I’ve gotta dog too," Jellwagger said.
"Now here’s my idea. Get ready for it. This shit’s gonna knock you right off this roof. Hold him down, Mr. Lee, just in case." Sam put his light beer down so he could grip both of Jellwagger’s arms. Thanks to his tipsiness, the grip wasn’t very sure. If Pat’s imminent pronouncement was really going to rattle the earth, Jellwagger was a goner. "I want you. Mr. Jellwagger. To come work. For me."
Sam T. Lee cackled.
"Where?" Jellwagger said, effortlessly slipping Sam’s grip so he could take his third Lagavulin from the waitress.
"Anywhere," Pat said, immediately diving into his third Lagavulin and coming away with an ice cube crunching in his mouth.
"He’s asking you to be his gopher," Sam said.
"Shut up, Mr. Lee. Mr. Jellwagger? This is what I want. I want you to be my gopher. My jack of all trades, if you will. If and when I want something done, I’ll give you a ring-a-ding-do on your cell. And you’ll do it."
"But I work!" Jellwagger said. The Lagavulin had made him feel so good that it finally occurred to him what Pat had been up to. Take the impressionable young lad who lives check to check, make him nice and drunk, and he’ll do anything for you. "Damn you to the Valley, Patrick Dinner!" He sipped his Lagavulin and crunched some ice before going on. "I work all day Monday through Friday. In case you haven’t noticed from high up in your fairy fucking tale castle, that’s what the majority of humanity does on a daily basis."
"Naturally I wouldn’t bother you while you’re at Powell and Powler. Although I might ask you to do something on your lunch break if I knew you could go somewhere and back within an hour. Like somewhere downtown."
"Our boy here does quite a bit of business downtown," Sam said.
"Don’t worry, Mr. Jellwagger. I pay well."
"He could buy you a house, and his bank account wouldn’t even feel it."
"I’m sorry, Mr. Lee, is there a reason you’re here?"
"To get drunk with you, sir."
"And you’re drinking light beer?"
"You know my theory, sir," Sam said. "Light beer is an oxymoron. They call it that so you’ll convince yourself it is light and that your body can stand drinking more of it than regular beer. Then you do, and they make more money. Say, wait a second, sir. Are you sure you don’t own a company that makes this particular light beer?"
"I wouldn’t be caught dead with a bottle of that foamy piss if you offered me Mars for free. So why on my green earth do you think I’d own a God damned light beer company? Eh, Mr. Lee? And how you can purport to be a heterosexual human being and still drink that tap water in disguise with a straight face is quite simply beyond me. Mind you, I figure myself to be pretty smart. You see, that’s how I’ve gotten this far, by my fucking noodle upstairs. And still, to this day and after all the years we’ve known each other, I simply cannot figure that out. So if you really are here to get drunk, then why don’t you do it? Eh, Mr. Lee? Mr. Jellwagger, give the man your Lagavulin. You’ve barely touched it, and at this point you're so loaded that standing up'll be harder than calculus. The last thing I need is another casualty on my hands." He grabbed Jellwagger’s drink, sloshing a bit on the table, and gave it to Sam. "If this young buck can handle two and a half glasses of this divine nectar, I’m confident you can handle a pittance." Sam frowned at the liquid as if he thought he might find something swimming in it. "Drink it, Mr. Lee, lest I get up right now and find you a boyfriend."
Downtown wasn’t looking so beautiful to Jellwagger anymore. It was fucking cold, and he felt sick to his stomach. The torpor of pleasure draped over his brain by the first two glasses of Lagavulin had been mutated into a torpor of fatigue and nausea by his few sips of the third. Jesus Herman Christ, how was he supposed to finish that data stack from hell? The sooner he got started on it, the sooner it would be done. The question remained about how he was going to be fit to work tomorrow. Was it tomorrow already? Forget it. If he dwelled on more than one obstacle at a time, he’d barf all over these megalomaniacal fucks.
He stood up, saw the office towers flip over, and toppled forward onto the table, spilling the drinks belonging to Pat’s two other friends opposite. Everyone laughed their asses off. Not only these four assholes, whose laughs sounded about ten thousand times louder than when he was sober, but just about everyone up here.
Pat helped him up. "Let’s take you home, my man."
"I’ve gotta work." Jellwagger barely got the words out of his mouth. Strings of slobber hung from his lower lip. Sam T. Lee put down the light beer and Lagavulin and got up to help Pat carry Jellwagger to the elevator.
"I would advise you to go home, my man, but I respect your call. Anyway, I’ll give you a ring-a-ding-bop on your cell soon enough and we’ll talk about how you can help me. And at the same time I can help you."
"Give me a day or two to recover, Ming the Merciless."
"If you had to work tonight," Sam said, "and you work downtown, what were you doing all the way over in Beverly Hills?"
Just listen to that bastard. Stone sober and all, wasn’t he? Still able to pronounce every single word so crisply and perfectly. If Jellwagger had had the strength, he would’ve picked up Sam T. Lee like a bodybuilder would a javelin and hurl his perfectly coifed ass onto the next roof over. "Speaking of my cell, have I told you where I got mine?" He pulled it out and held it up next to his face with a dumb smile. "Because apparently I told Sam T. Lee about my sister even though I have no memory at all of doing so. So I’m just making sure I haven’t given you the backstory on this little rocket ship."
They reached the elevator. "I don’t think you have," Pat said. "Has he, Mr. Lee?"
"No. But tell me, Jellwagger," Sam said. "Do you remember, just before getting up and falling over, how you were saying you wanted to have children with your boss? Some Latina named Betsy?"
"Oh God, I said that?" Jellwagger looked at Pat and wanted to puke on him. "You see how Sam just calls me Jellwagger and not Mr. Jellwagger, Mr. Dinner? Take a cue from that. And take a cue from his hot hair."
"He addresses everyone with mister," Sam said.
"Just those I respect," Pat said.
Sam left them to it at the elevator. Jellwagger conked out on Pat’s shoulder during the ride down and didn’t come to until Pat was opening the limo door for him in front of the Sanwa Bank building. Jellwagger didn’t think he’d ever been so cold in his life. Pat was saying something to him, it sounded like a question. Instead of giving a shit, he lumbered into the building thinking about those same zombies he’d thought about on his way out earlier that evening. So this was what it felt like to be the walking dead.
When Jellwagger got back to his desk, he found Stu Dobkins sleeping on the floor next to his chair. Stu’s eyes snapped open. "Michael Johnson Jellwag!" He sat up. "Whatever you saw tonight, keep it to yourself. You read me?"
Jellwagger puked all over Stu’s fat Quasimodo face. And when I say he puked, I mean that our man puked like a champ. Forget the booze. Seeing it all gush out, you would’ve thought Jellwagger had drunk Niagara Falls. The slop spewed into Stu’s face and his glasses and his innumerable chins. Through the stomach acid Jellwagger could smell the Lagavulin. And the Spaten. And the sausages. And even that horrifically overpriced broth.
Stu leaped to his feet with amazing deftness considering his Everest-sized girth. "You alcoholic son of a motherfucker!"
"Leave my motherfucker out of this, Stu Dobkins! Unless you want me to tell all the world and the rich bastards who control it that you were taking a VIP tour of Grant’s asshole tonight. Or would it be considered yesterday now?"
Stu spit out the barf that had snuck into his mouth, then used his shirt and tie to wipe off his face. "Now you listen to me. If you say one word about mine and Grant’s fulfilling two fantasies with one bout of hot sex–sex so hot you’d be jealous if you knew just how hot it was because you’ll never reach that level of hotness in your own sex life–I will go to Betsy and tell her that instead of finishing your work, you went out and got hammered. And then came back drunk. Oh, and you don’t think she’ll believe me?" Stu whipped out his cell which, like the one Carla bought Jellwagger, had a built-in camera. He held it out at arm’s length, aimed it at himself, smiled, and pressed a button. Then he turned it around and showed Jellwagger the picture of the puked-on smiling Stu. "I’ve got evidence." He flipped his phone shut and stalked away. Just before rounding the corner to the bathrooms, he stopped and shook a finger at our hero. "It was all going so well. You’ve been here four years, and I never had to deal with you once. Yesterday–yes, it would be considered yesterday now–I deal with you for the first time, and I have the day from hell. Curse you, Michael Johnson Jellwag!" He stomped away.
Jellwagger sat down at his desk, his eyes hanging low and his arms feeling as insubstantial as Stu’s hair. He needed something strong in him and now. Coffee. Soda. Something to kick him in the ass or he’d never get this done. He wiped another string of spit from his lip and said, just before his chin hit his chest, "It’s Jellwagger. Drop the mister shit. Drop the Michael shit. It’s just Jellwagger."
To be continued...
