Now just look at our man here, would ya? What a right state he was in and no mistake, his belly full of some of the most awesome Chexican cuisine you ever saw courtesy of House of Ta Ko, chased down by a few Spatens, and capped off with some awesome flan he taught himself in no time to chow on with chopsticks. I’m sure you knew about the flan already. This Jellwagger with the Donald Duck cane’s got it smeared all over his face from when he conked out at the House of Ta Ko bar.
And now here he was, still out for the count, flan all over, Donald Duck smiling that shit-eating billed smile, slouched in the backseat of a very expensive sedan with tinted windows. No, this wasn’t the same sedan in which he’d ridden to House of Ta Ko, Sam T. Lee’s tan affair. This was a different one, but in about five seconds it would become incredibly familiar to Jellwagger.
The driver turned around and smacked our drugged man hard. Like every other type of noise that happens inside a car, the slap noise was amplified about a million times. In fact, what woke up Jellwagger? The slap or the sound of it?
“Up and at ‘em, Jellwagger!”
Jellwagger woke with such a start that he bounced off the plush leather seat and smacked his noggin against the plush ceiling of the import, sending himself right back into blackness.
The driver spent a good minute or so laughing his tailored ass off. When he recovered, he slapped Jellwagger some more. No go. He considered Donald Duck for an assist, but in the end Donald wasn’t needed. After the tenth or so slap, Jellwagger woke with a start again, only this time the driver had his other hand planted firmly on our drugged man’s shoulder should he do another ejector seat impersonation. “What did he say?!” Jellwagger said with wide, bloodshot eyes. “I want to know what really happened.”
“Well, sir,” the driver said. “I was given instructions to pick you up from the House of Ta Ko and take you back to your job, as your lunch break was lamentably at an end.”
Jellwagger’s world came back into focus. Smiling at him from the driver’s seat, with his black driving cap and black leather driving gloves, was Flip. “Flip! My man!”
“Sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“In a word, sir? My job.”
Jellwagger wiped the sweat off his forehead and was just about to ask for water when Flip handed him a chilled bottle. “Your name notwithstanding, you’re awesome, Flip.” Jellwagger sucked down the entire bottle in one pull. Flip handed him another. “My eyes weigh a ton, Flip.” Flip pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to Jellwagger. “What the fuck?”
“For your face, sir. Flan, sir.”
And that’s when the memory smacked Jellwagger harder than the felt ceiling and Flip’s palm combined. “Gwak!” He looked around. Of course Gwak wasn’t there, and only now did Jellwagger see they were parked on Figueroa right outside the Sanwa Bank building. He was so groggy from whatever Gwak had put in his flan that just the mere effort of looking out the window made him feel utterly drained.
“You ever have anesthesia, sir?”
“What do my wisdom teeth have to do with anything? Oh! That’s the only time I’ve been put under. And I know what you’re going to say. This is what it’s like when you come to.”
“Yes, sir.” Flip’s placid countenance reminded Jellwagger of hot cocoa and a bedtime story, one of those Babar books Mom used to read him.
“Jellwagger!” squawked a voice over his walkie-talkie cell. Of course, only one woman with red hair would have the balls to do that, and always at the worst possible time.
“Why did the bitch drug me, Flip?”
“The methodology of the Chexican mafia, sir, has been a mystery to all but them. And even some of their number, it is said, have scratched their heads from time to time over the decisions of the higher-ups. Now you know how Mr. Dinner feels.”
“You better answer me, bitch!”
“Speaking of, where is that billionaire rascal?”
“All I can divulge, sir, is that I was taking a cat nap when I received a call from Mr. Dinner to come downtown, stat, as you would say, to pick you up from House of Ta Ko and return you to your place of employ.”
“Jellwagger!”
“Hold that thought, Flip.” Jellwagger dug his cell out and said: “Starship Carrot Top, this is Houston, what’s your status?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day, what happened?”
“Oh, just a little something called my first day back on the job after a week off. What’s up?”
“I’ve got an assignment for you. A nice important one, so that if you fuck it up, it’s your ass going to jail for stalking.”
“Golly shucks, Carla, I haven’t caught up with my inbox yet.”
“It has to do with those photos. When do you get off tonight?”
Once again Jellwagger had to plumb the depths of his short term memory, weaving through the haze of Gwak’s concoction, until he saw in his mind’s eye the photos with Pat Dinner and Kit Figures. That’s when he remembered Gwak’s gorgeous smiling face telling him about her and Kit knowing each other since college, and that those photos were taken at some point since Kit did a Greg Louganis off the Santa Monica Pier. “I’m off at six.”
“Sweet. I’ll call you then. You better not bail on me, bitch.”
Jellwagger sat there like a vegetable with the cell in his hand long after Carla hung up.
Flip’s “Sir?” brought him back.
“How the fuck did I get into all this, Flip? Wait, don’t answer that.” He pocketed the phone, grabbed Donald, and opened the door. “I’m really sorry about ruining your cat nap.”
“Not at all, Jellwagger. Have a great rest of your day. And night.”
“Say hi to Pat for me, will ya?”
“I have a feeling you’ll be able to do that for yourself very soon.” He tipped his hat. “Until the next random encounter, sir.”
Jellwagger hobbled into the Sanwa lobby, offered a nod to Dathan, who in return flashed Jellwagger a smile a bit too bright for a simple hello, pairing it with one of those finger pointing jobs, a jab with his index straight out and his thumb straight up, a pistol shot greeting you typically see between two people who know something no one else in the vicinity knew. Whatever the deal was with Sam T. Lee, Jellwagger had a sick feeling in his gut that it was only just beginning.
The nausea got worse during the elevator ride up to forty-two. For a split second Jellwagger was convinced he’d barf, less because of his fear of the near future than the lingering effects of whatever Gwak had put in his flan. The elevator chime was just the ticket to snap our limping data entry hero out of it. He offered Laura the same smile he did Dathan before heading down the hallway.
“You okay, honey?” Laura called from behind.
“Don’t get shot and don’t get drugged, kiddo, that’s Jellwagger’s free advice of the day.”
His phone rang as soon as he sat down at his desk. He didn’t have the energy to check the caller ID, but something told him he didn’t need to. “Go fuck yourself,” he answered.
“My man! Flip phoned me.”
“Nice play on words, Pat.”
“Sorry about the flan, man.”
“And again!”
“I didn’t know they’d go that far. Drugging you with flan? Jeez, talk about rubbing it in. Get it? I’m on fire, Jellwagger.”
“Hold on, you knew they’d drug me?” His phone rang again. This time he did check the caller ID. The area code was New Jersey, and it wasn’t Jo. His mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Now?”
“It was sort of a test, I guess you could say. Or a warning salvo. I dunno. You’re the writer, you’ll think of a good metaphor.”
“Hold that thought, Pat. I’ll be back to kick your ass shortly.” He put Pat on hold and took the other call. “Ma?”
“Michael Johnson, where have you been?”
“Is that a trick question? I told you I was going back to work today.”
“I’ve been calling you.”
“You know, it’s really too bad you don’t believe in voicemail. Or e-mail. Or technology in general. Because if you did, getting in touch with me wouldn’t be so goddam complicated.”
“The reason I called you every day last week to check up on you is because I was in such a state about not being able to visit to make sure you got better. At least Jo took care of you.”
“Sure she did. I want you to believe that.”
I know what you’re thinking. We’re twenty-one episodes into the life and times of Michael Johnson Jellwag, and only now you’re getting to meet his mom, Eugenia Murphy Jellwag, toll collector extraordinaire for the New Jersey Turnpike. Well, what can I tell you? I wanted to introduce her earlier. After all, besides Jo, she’s the only other family Jellwagger’s got back in the Garden State. Technically, I have introduced her already, way back at the beginning of the first episode. I wanted her to visit Jellwagger the way Jo did, but Genie, as her friends call her, lacked a compelling reason. Plus, and more importantly, she mans the tollbooths for the Jersey Turnpike, a gig that, like the Jersey mafia, is very hard to get time off from. That also explains why she didn’t visit Jellwagger after he got shot, although she did call him every day, as you just heard. Working the tollbooths was anything but a cake walk. It’s not just a matter of standing there in the friggin’ booth and collecting dollar bills from people. What do you do with the suckers who complain about paying? What do you do about the anarchists? The Communists? Taking toll fare is like flying a plane. It’s not the actual flying that’s hard, it’s what you do when something goes wrong, when an engine blows, when a terrorist wants to crash the plane into the water. Collecting everyone’s due takes training, dedication, and sacrifice, and the fact that Genie Jellwag’s been doing it since before her boy was born speaks volumes about this Jersey girl’s constitution.
“Oh? You mean she didn’t? Funny, I’ve heard she’s been out there a couple times in the past couple weeks. Although I don’t know why.”
“Look, Ma, the feud between you and Jo has crossed the boundaries of absurdity. You read me, Ma? We crossed those boundaries eons ago. I bet if someone asked you why you and your daughter aren’t on speaking terms, you wouldn’t know the answer, would you? Huh, Ma? Would you?”
“Skinny bitch, pick up!” squawked Comet Head’s voice from his walkie-talkie cell.
“Turn down the radio, Michael Johnson. You kids these days.”
“Hang on, Ma.” He pressed a button. “You still there, Patsy Cline?”
“Take your time, my man. I’m doing a little something called multitasking, something you kids know nothing about.”
“Then how in Bel Air do you explain what I’m doing now?”
“Don’t piss me off, bitch!”
Jellwagger put Pat on hold and dug out his walkie-talkie cell. “Comet Fuck, this is Houston, what’s your status?” And much to his surprise, she laughed.
“You know something, Jellwagger? If it wasn’t for the whole stalking thing, you’d be all right.”
“So long as you keep shouting through your precious goddam walkie-talkie cell, Carla, I will continue being an insufferable vitriolic smartass.”
“Nice use of vitriolic, dude.”
“Actually no, that didn’t quite work. I was too eager to rub your face in it. Now what’s up? My watch reads half past two. Didn’t you say six?”
“A quick heads up to be sure you get something to eat before I call. It’s going to be a long night, Jellwagger, but you know what? Before you get pissed? Think of it as getting you to your twenty-hour quota that much faster.”
“Yahoo.”
“You ready for the gravy? You’ll be doing a good deed for the law. I’m talking about catching bad guys. Not loser wannabe stalkers who couldn’t get laid if the sky rained hot chicks, I’m talking real nasty fuckers.”
“You must be taking my encounter with Aaron the wrong way.”
“I know Stefania was the one who talked him down with her awesome nunnery skills while you still somehow got your dumbass shot. You’re no tough guy, I get it. But you are one sneaky, devious fuck. And those are the skills I need. By the way, has Pale Cock given you his ol’ ring-a-ding-doo?”
“Golly shucks, Carla, no, I haven’t heard from him since the two of you used my apartment as a cheap motel.”
“And Sam T. Lee? Has he reached out to you?”
“You must’ve had one too many beers from your awesome frozen steins, Carla. I’ve just been here tap-tap-tapping away all the doo da day. Catching up on mails, catching up on life. Funny how one week of a life can seem like a lifetime. Why, I think it was Jean-Paul Sarte who said…”
“Dude, whatever! My only point in calling was to make sure you eat something tonight before I put your skinny bitch ass to work. Peace out.”
Jellwagger got his mom back on the horn. “Ma, I gotta go. Work beckons in ways you couldn’t possibly fathom.”
“You want to know what Jo said about me?”
“I have no interest whatsoever.”
“Are you okay, Michael? Jo and I do talk once in a while, you know. If the topic is important enough.”
“And you’re telling me you found such a topic?”
“Of course, sweetie. You. Jo and I may have our grudges, but neither she nor I begrudge you anything. Well actually…. Oh forget it. You’re the man of the family now, and hiding in the Valley won’t change that. Jo went out there a couple weeks ago for reasons she won’t share. When she came back, she said she was worried. She didn’t say why, just that you might give the screenwriting racket a couple more years and then, if you haven’t sold anything at that point, perhaps take stock of your station.”
“Take stock of my station? Jo doesn’t talk like that.”
I probably should’ve mentioned that Genie Jellwag was a well read woman. She read on her lunch breaks, regardless of her shift, and she read every night (or morning, again depending on her shift that week) before hitting the sack. Jellwagger, as you’ve long since learned, is a bit of a bookworm himself. And now you know where he gets it from.
“Mind you, Michael, this was before you got shot.”
“Ma, as I explained every day last week, that was a total freak accident and has nothing to do with data entry for Powell and Powler’s marketing department. Aaron’s fine, he’s just got issues. Like an estranged wife and kid in Lancaster. And this job is perfect for an aspiring screenwriter, especially one penning Bruce Willis’s next masterpiece. You’ll see, Ma, I got a good feeling about this Danish. Now I’ve gotta run. Love you.” He pressed a button. “Pat Dinner, what’s the score?”
“When you off work, Jellwagger? I’ve got a job for you.”
“What an unbelievable coincidence. I have absolutely nothing to do tonight. And might I say it’s about time you put my gimpy ass to work. It’s been two weeks since that glorious night at Spago and The Standard.”
Pat’s cackling exploded out of the phone so that our man had to jerk his head away. “You are so right, my man. Of course, your getting plugged in the thigh put a crimp in my style.”
“Mine too.”
“But not to worry! The Dinner Company will make up for lost times. I’ve got a real doozey for you tonight.”
“Do I get to hitch a ride with Flip?”
“’Fraid not, Jellwagger.” Pat’s voice dropped a few octaves. “No, tonight I’ve got Flip on a different job. Personal one. Boring, you don’t want to hear it. Now you, my man, your night will be anything but boring.”
“Do tell.”
“Two words: Poker and sex.”
“Fuck yeah!”
“You play poker before, my man?”
“Sure,” Jellwagger said before he thought about it and realized he wasn’t entirely sure. He must have, right? Who lives to be thirty-one without playing a hand of cards? Jellwagger knew he’d played blackjack before. He played at least once with Jo and their father. It was one night eons ago when his mom was working the second shift on the turnpike. Jo and the old man kicked his ass.
“That’s great. I was going to offer you lessons, a primer before sending you into the lion’s den, but if you’ve got your shit together, that’s awesome.”
“Lion’s den, huh? So where exactly am I going tonight, Pat?”
“Good question. I’m not exactly sure what time the party’s starting. And the venue might change. But it is happening, my man, don’t you worry.”
“Speaking of worrying, what’s the deal with Sam T. Lee? Why would he hire a friggin’ contractor to drug me on my lunch break?”
“Another great question. I have no idea. To be frank with you, while Sam T. Lee and I are acquaintances and have the occasional drink together, his interests and mine do overlap in certain areas.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most roundabout way of saying he and Sam T. Lee were rivals... “You’re filthy rich, he’s filthy rich, I have no idea how either of you make your filthy richness, but at a certain point, what does it matter, right?”
Pat’s voice dipped again. “It matters. Or else my business interests… Oh you don’t want to hear about that boring stuff. Anyway, I swear I didn’t know about the drugging. Sam said he just wanted to have coffee and chat with you and give his personal thanks for making our evening out such an interesting one.” Pat’s breathing sounded hoarse.
Jellwagger’s cell vibrated across his desk. Not Carla’s walkie-talkie, but his main cell. The caller ID said private. He declined the call so the private person would get his voicemail.
“I’ll call you back, my man,” Pat said. “Speaking of business interests, one is beckoning right now. You’re off at six, right?”
“You betcha.”
“Talk then.”
“Jesus fuck, can I get some peace?” Jellwagger said after hanging up. He opened up Outlook to continue catching up on mails.
His cell vibrated again with the private number. He declined.
After deleting some spam, the shiny little bastard buzzed some more. “Grand Central Station, how may I direct your call?”
“Hey now, Hank Kingsley!”
“You’ve got balls calling me like this after what you pulled, Gwak-a-Fuck-Hole. What the hell was that?”
“You’re not taking the whole face in the flan thing personally, are you? Jellwagger! Jellwagger, Jellwagger, Jellwagger.”
“Oh if you weren’t a woman, Gwak…”
“Well I am a woman and can still beat you up. Bada-bing. Joking!”
“Did I wrong you in a past life or something? I mean honestly.”
“At least Flip picked you up. He’s awesome, right? I’ve always liked Flip.”
“And to rub it in in a very literal way, you slid your half-eaten flan over just in time for my face to do a Greg Louganis into it.”
“Oh I was just fucking with you.”
“Fucking with me?!” Jellwagger looked around and expected Mahoney’s face and the face of every other attorney in the vicinity to poke out of their offices. He held the phone away while Gwak cracked up.
Grant pinged him: “Are you having a fling out there, young Jellwagging star?”
At least the guy’s sense of humor was intact.
Gwak recovered enough to say: “Okay, the flan thingee was my own personal touch. Sam didn’t tell me to do that. Having fun’s not the guy’s style, with all respect.”
Jellwagger said, “But he did want you to drug me?” while typing back to Grant: “I sure picked a helluva week to stop sniffing glue.”
“Okay, fine, it was a warning,” she said. “Happy? I hate being mean, but…”
“Warning for what?”
Grant typed: “I’m starting to wish I hadn’t spammed you.”
“I guess to show you he’s not afraid to keep you in place if you step out of line.”
“Subtle.” He typed back to Grant: “That was pretty fucked up, man. I’m still trying to catch up on mails. How many of these prospects do you want in by EOD?”
“Look, in the end, Jellwagger? It was harmless, right? You’re not hurt. We got you back to work on time. Everything’s back to normal.”
“What does Sam T. Lee do for a living? What kinds of assignments will he give me?”
“I plead the Fifth and I plead the Fifth.”
Grant typed back: “Just do what you can and run for your life at five.”
“And you’re not his hitwoman?” He typed back: “I’ll see you one better and work til six. I’ll work til six all this week, how’s that?”
“I consult for him as a communications specialist.”
Grant typed: “I don’t deserve you.”
“So that’s what they’re calling your kind these days.”
“But I won’t be contacting you in a work capacity, Jellwagger. You’re on our side. The peeps I gotta talk to are from other companies.”
“Companies whose business interests overlap with Samuel Tijuana Lee’s. Like the business of a certain Mr. Dinner.”
“Pat and Sam aren’t exactly Hitler and Churchill, Jellwagger. They probably cooperate more than they compete. Sometimes it’s good to have someone of your rank and station doing the same thing as you. You can share best practices and that kind of thing. And even drivers. I know you won’t buy it, but part of why Sam got Flip to take you back was so you’d wake up to a familiar, friendly face and not freak out. Hey now, Hank Kingsley, I sure hope I become a friendly face to you.”
“Maybe you can be useful to me, Gwak. If I need an ear to bleed into, because maybe I won’t get Sam’s style at first or whatever, you can be that ear. An advisor of sorts. How’s that grab ya?”
“It grabs me, Jellwagger. Now seriously, you gots to go, and so do I. I’ll talk at ya.”
For the rest of the day, and mercifully so, Jellwagger’s phones were silent. He never saw Stu again. Grant IMed him one more time, just before he left around five-thirty, telling him to be absolutely sure he got out of Dodge at six sharp and not a second later. As six approached, his leg started throbbing again. By now he was just finishing e-mail catch up and trying his damnedest to make a nick in the stack Grant had been saving for him. To play off the throbbing, Jellwagger focused hard on the voice of Bruce Willis reading from Civilization and Its Discontents.
“Jellwagger, this is your savior calling,” squawked Carla’s voice. She sounded tipsy.
Jellwagger could play off the throbbing no more. He dropped three painkillers. He’d taken two before lunch and two this morning. The bottle said he should only be taking two at a time twice a day, but they obviously hadn’t accounted for redheaded stressors. Regardless, he couldn’t be Carla’s gopher and a cripple at the same time. If too many painkillers knocked him off his ass, then at least that’d be one less ass doing Carla’s bidding.
“I’m on my way out.”
“Stomach full? Ready for a full night of fun?”
“Yupper and you betcha,” he lied and lied.
“Get your skinny ass out of there and let me know when we can talk in private.”
“Ten four, Frau Comet.”
Guffaws came from down the corridor, previewing the arrival of Stu, who appeared with a beet-red smiling face, his sweaty hands gripping that poor mail cart. “Michael Johnson Jellwag! You are the man with the master plan, are you not, sir?”
Jellwagger got his stuff together, grabbed the Donald Duck cane, and got up. “Stu?” He limped past him toward the lobby. “Do your best.”
“That I will, sir.”
Jellwagger waited until he was outside on his way back to the red line station before he pulled out his cell. Rivers of pedestrians flowed by him in both directions. Evening rush hour applied to the sidewalks of downtown L.A. as much as it did the streets. But if you’ve ever braved the crowds of any big city center, you know it’s perfectly safe to have a private conversation. No one’s listening because they’re talking on their own cells, deep in their own conversations. “What’s the score, Carla?”
“Good news and shitty news. First, the shitty. What I want you to do for me tonight is going to keep you up late. I’m thinking midnight. Now to cheer you up? This’ll be a nice big chunk of those twenty hours you owe me. And another awesome thing? To show you how much I love you? I’m not making you venture outside the God-forsaken 818.”
“If you really love me, this job won’t even take me outside the comfy confines of Van Nuys.”
“Of course I’m making you go outside that shit hole. That blight on a blight. Look, you stalked me, nothing changes that, but I am not, repeat not, that vindictive. I’m getting revenge just having your punk ass in my felt pocket, but I won’t rub it in.”
“You’re a true scholar. So WTF am I going?”
“Too risky. Someone could hear.”
“WTF cares what you say?”
“Won’t do it.”
“Yeah, sure, it’s all about you. Everyone walking by, with all their problems and stress and everything else, they are all just waiting with bated breath to hear the name of the lion’s den you’re throwing me into.”
“Call me back when you’re in the Valley, bitch. And the fact that you’re going there willingly, and that you’re actually looking forward to getting back to Van Not So Nuys, is absolutely sickening. Maybe when you’re no longer my vassal state, I can give you some therapist referrals. We’ve got a ton of them here on the Westside. It’s therapy capital.” She hung up.
His other cell rang as he boarded the red line subway at Seventh Street Metro. It was standing room only. Jellwagger squeezed between two impeccably dressed guys who were too busy reading their smartphones to give a shit about affording him a slightly wider berth. “You en route, my man?”
“You know what’s funny, Pat? I never thought my cell would work down here.”
“It probably doesn’t normally. My cell’s special, though. It’s got this extra strong satellite signal that links it to the number I’m calling. So right now, for all intents and purposes, your cell is as super-cool-dude as mine.”
Jellwagger laughed. Pat didn’t. “Really, Pat? Wow, that’s neat. Say, you used the word dude just then. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say that.”
“I’ve been living in the City of Angeles a long time, my man.”
“I happen to know someone else who uses that word. You might know her. Carla Houde?”
He cracked up. Jellwagger would’ve held the phone away to spare his eardrum, but he had no room. One of the guys next to him shot him a look. “You’re thinking…?” Pat began. “Just because she and I…? Ha ha!” Fuckin’ A. The whole goddam train could hear Pat’s cackling. “Nice one, Jellwagger. But, uh, no. Hot sex a marriage makes not.”
“Well said, Yoda.”
“And sex with her has always been hot. Her being a backstabbing, conniving bitch has luckily had no effect on that. Aw shit, see what you did, you gopher? You’ve gotten me all pissed off and worked up. Fuck her up the ass, man, and this time I mean that in a bad way!”
Jellwagger hung up. He knew he was risking Pat reading him the Riot Act, but this Jellwagger, at this particular hour, simply did not have the energy to put up with some weird billionaire embarrassing him in front of a train full of people. His cell buzzed a few more times during the ride home, and each time Jellwagger pressed Decline.
When he was safe and sound in Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, he called back. “I guess your super satellite isn’t so super, Pat. There we were, having a pleasant chat, and…BLOOP! The signal dropped.”
“God damned technology, eh, Jellwagger?” He cackled. So much for the Riot Act. “So what’s the score?”
“I’m sitting in Shitty Shitty Bang Bang in the North Hollywood red line parking lot, awaiting Dinner time.”
“Awesome double entendre.”
“You can thank a bunch of unproduced scripts.”
“Check this out, my man. How’s a nice night of strip poker grab you?”
“My hearing must be failing me. At first I thought you said strip poker…”
“And you might get to fuck one of the hot chicks you’ll be playing with. And you don’t have to leave the Valley. Come on, Jellwagger, it’s a win-win all around.”
“Where exactly is it?”
Pat gave him the address. It was south of Ventura, up in the Sherman Oaks hills, off Sepulveda Blvd. During those times when the 405 was too jammed, Sepulveda was the alternate link between the Valley and the Westside. Jellwagger had driven the route enough times to have a clear picture in his mind of the houses up there. That he’d actually get to go inside one of them made him reconsider just how bad being a billionaire’s gopher could be. “Now back to the strip poker, don’t forget it’s gambling. So let’s hope Lady Luck is on your side tonight.”
“I can handle poker. And if they have booze, getting undressed in front of strangers may not be so bad.”
“When I said gambling, I was referring to the women. You need luck to score with a hot rich chick. Especially you. But if you love the underdog story, then you should be all over the story I’m making you part of.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but is there a particular reason you want me to play strip poker and get laid in Sherman Oaks?”
“I’m turning you into a super hero, Jellwagger. You’ve already got the name, now you just need the skills.”
“I knew you had my back, Dinner.”
“There’s something rotten in the state of Sherman Oaks, and you’re the Hamlet to rip shit up.”
“I never thought I’d hear someone say something like that to me.”
“Here’s what you do.” Pat explained how he wanted Jellwagger to stake out the joint and then move in at just the right time.
“Sounds risky, Pat.”
“They’ll be expecting you, my man. Just tell them what I told you, and even if they misunderstand you, which is possible in an area like that, everything should still go off without a hitch.”
“Simple. Yet ungodly complicated.”
“In a word, life.”
“Sounds like an educational assignment. I’ll talk at ya.”
“One more thing before I cut the tether. Don’t trust a soul. If you do manage to land yourself a hottie, she’ll most likely be the least trustworthy of the bunch.”
“Say, these people don’t work for any of your rivals, do they?”
“Rivals?”
“Jellwagger!” squawked the all-too-familiar madam’s voice. “Respond in five seconds or I’ll have you arrested for being the most demented stalker this side of the Pecos.”
“You’re leaving out a lot of info, Pat.”
“Your radio on, my man?”
“I thought that was from your end,” Jellwagger said. He muted his cell and picked up the walkie-talkie. “I’m flirting with a hot chick, Carla, I’ll be with you shortly.”
“You’ve got balls, dude, I’ll give you that.”
He muted the walkie-talkie and went back to Pat in time to hear him say:
“…can’t tell you too much, just be careful.”
“Oh come on, Pat, help a brother out. Who the hell are these people? Why am I playing strip poker with them? What if I don’t score?”
“Even Babe Ruth couldn’t clear the fence every game. What I want you to do is observe. Follow the instructions I gave you and play your role. Be sure to retain your observations in your noodle so you can report back to me. Coolioz?”
Pat hung up before Jellwagger could give him a coolioz in the affirmative. He hopped back onto the walk-talkie with She Who Must Not Be Named. “Okay, Madam Carla, pun intended, my shift is done, my stomach is full, I’m ready for Freddie.”
“I have a feeling my being too nice to you has thrown you off your game.”
“I’m sorry, I could’ve sworn you just said nice…”
“In twenty-four hours, I let you eat my ass and fuck me in the shower, and then I make sure you’re well fed before I send you on an important assignment that’ll bring you much closer to paying off your vassal debt to me.”
“You’re right, you’re a veritable Santa Claus, keep going.”
“To cap off the gift of giving, I’m giving you an assignment that doesn’t amount to much more than a stakeout. But it’s really important. Like, I basically need you to confirm that the pricks I suspect of stealing from Just Because are actually the ones. So here’s the deal...” Carla laid it all out.
“Sherman Oaks hills, eh?” Jellwagger said. How awesome was that? She was sending him to the same neighborhood where Pat was sending him. How awesome would it be if she wanted him to stakeout the same address? “So what’s the address?”
When she said it, he thought he was dreaming.
“Say it again.”
And she did. Yes, it was definitely the same address. “You there, dude?”
“What? Oh yeah. Sorry. My full stomach was distracting me. You’ve got friends in awesome places.”
“I would if I had any friends there. But I’m pretty sure this is home base for those fucks stealing from me.”
“Is there a decent place for me to hide out while I stakeout? And who are these people? Who do they work for? Why would they steal from you?”
“Look at it this way, Jellwagger, it’ll be a journey of discovery.”
“Jesus!”
“I’m serious. Note what you see. You want to bring something to write with, just so you don’t miss anything? Awesome. Because if you do miss something, I’ll find out in the end.”
“I feel like shit for spying on you, I want to make it up to you, but you’re being cryptic for no good reason.”
“I have very good reason.”
“And there we have a straight answer.”
“By midnight, those who are staying there for the night will be in, and those leaving will be gone. That’s when you go straight home and call me and give me a full report.”
“How full are we talking?”
“Oh shit, I almost forgot. Don’t park near the address. Park at least a mile away, maybe a bit further. Maybe you should just leave your car at the NoHo station and walk there.”
“No fucking way am I walking from here. Bye, honey.”
Jellwagger stopped at an In-N-Out Burger and grabbed an animal-style beefwich and an order of those awesome fries. Convincing Carla he’d eaten dinner and was good to go til sunup only emphasized the empty pit in his stomach. He chomped on that fat burger with a vengeance as he wound his way up the curvaceous streets into the hills above Sherman Oaks, letting the animal grease drip down his chin with impunity. He wasn’t livid with Pat and Carla so much as the situation. No, he couldn’t get too mad at those billionaires. In the end, Jellwagger was responsible for this mess, hence his punishing himself, or at least his shirt, with burger fat. God damn, though, if the fries didn’t make the whole righteous indignation shtick totally worth it.
He could still get pissed at Carla if he wanted to. Sure, he’d stalked her, but she was taking the payback thing way too far, and they both knew it. If she had a problem with where he parked Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, she could go fuck herself. In fact, if she was embarrassed about it, and these people were stealing from her, that could only mean they hated her guts. And if they hated her, and she hated Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, that meant they would either adore Shitty Shitty Bang Bang or at least not give a shitty shitty bang bang if Jellwagger parked it in their vicinity.
As it turned out, what anyone’s opinions about his car were didn’t matter. The block on which this gorgeous two-story house with the marble columns and balconies sat was filled with cars, as were the adjacent blocks. This burger-scarfing data entry clerk had to drive another quarter-mile or so up the hill, almost to Mulholland Drive on the hill’s crest. Perhaps that wouldn’t’ve been a long walk for you or me, but for Michael Johnson Jellwag, on this particular night and just barely equipped with a negligible reserve of energy, when all he wanted to do was go home and get some work done on Danish before toasting Bruce Willis and getting a good night’s shuteye to cure the lingering effects of Gwak’s drug, any appreciable walk was a five-alarm suck fest.
The walk notwithstanding, where the fuck was he going to hide during the stakeout? Didn’t cops usually conduct stakeouts from their car? Or from a conveniently abandoned house across the street? When he drove by just now, tons of cars were all over the place. No doubt everyone was worn out from horrifically exhausting days telling their production assistants to fetch coffee, so if they spotted this particular Jellwagger snooping around and spying, they’d have his balls strung up faster than you can say Jack Nicholson’s recycling container.
And that’s why this itty bitty Jellwagger swung a left at the next intersection, a couple blocks shy of the house in question. You should know that Jellwagger is not exactly dealing with your average grid layout you see in most big cities. You take our nation’s capital, for instance: Perfect grid split into four quadrants with Capitol Hill in the middle. Then you’ve got the Big Apple with her numbered streets and avenues. Couldn’t be easier, right? Well, Jellwagger was now in a realm that directly refuted the whole idea of ease and convenience. The streets lining the hills above L.A. and the San Fernando Valley, collectively known as the Santa Monica Mountains, or simply the hill if you were a yokel, must’ve been mapped out by a gang of Santa Monica ninja monkeys on acid. Seriously, it’s like they took a map and just went to town on it with crayons or what have you. And then paid contractors enough dough not to give a shit. Jellwagger was on the Valley side of the hill, specifically the Sherman Oaks section. Sherman Oaks, like all the Valley neighborhoods that abutted the hill, had a section on the hill itself, all the way up to Mulholland, which is where the rest of L.A. began with, depending on which part of the hill you were on, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Los Feliz, all those tony ‘hoods you and I will never be able to afford. Not that we’d want to, right? Not if they’re this fucked up.
As you can tell, though, Jellwagger wasn’t letting any of this slow him down. Just look at our man limp right along there, gripping Donald Duck with purpose as the two of them rounded the bend to the next intersection and swung a right. The intersection after that came quickly. The occasional Bentley or Benz zoomed by with no respect for the turns that would’ve baffled Shitty Shitty Bang Bang.
In a few minutes Jellwagger and Mr. Duck arrived at the house whose location on this side of the block corresponded to the house Carla and Pat wanted him to stake out and play strip poker at, respectively, on the other side of the block. Whoever owned this place must’ve imported a section of the Congo. Honestly, how was our favorite data entry clerk supposed to find his way to the backyard?
What would John McClane do?
And that’s all Jellwagger had to ask himself before he, with Donald at his side, or rather, in his fist, set off up the steep driveway. A spotlight flicked on when he reached the top while a dog started barking its carnivorous head off from somewhere inside. Most of the windows were dark. Jellwagger used Donald the way folks in the Congo use a machete to hack his way through the nearly impenetrable foliage along the side of the house. Donald didn’t have a blade, of course, but don’t you know our man compensated for that by beating the living shit out of each and every piece of vegetation. Judging by the steady volume of the barking, the damned man eater seemed to be following Jellwagger through the house.
The giant leaves, fronds, and bushes looked funky in the half-light. The ones that didn’t break or fall swung back at our man here, swiping dew on his forehead and cheeks. One got him right on the mouth, a nice wet kiss. Their bizarre shapes reminded Jellwagger of that little art exhibition Grant and Zach took him to, which in turn made him think of Grace, since that’s where they met. With sweat pouring down his face while he and Donald punished the brambles, he wondered what she was doing right now. Was she ringing up customers at Amoeba? Or was she at home toiling over her next opus?
The backyard was more jungle. It did have a center area relatively clear of foliage, but our man here could easily avoid that exposure. In no time he was at the back fence, a towering solid wall of ocher wood. Thanks both to the tree by the corner of the yard and the painkillers still going strong, Jellwagger got over that ocher. And apparently Scooby Doo back there had already gotten over him. The house was dead silent.
He stepped from the top of the fence right onto the thick branch of a tree on the strip poker property. This backyard was huge, and apparently the strip poker players had gotten on the Congo bandwagon as well. Shit, they were driving this wagon. We’re talking Sherwood Forest here. A good hundred feet or more, filled with nature, separated Jellwagger from the back door. While that meant it unlikely he’d be spotted, he himself couldn’t see much either. Plus, and this was always the downside to well-tended grounds, the bugs were kicking his ass up and down this overpriced block. He didn’t know what sorts of things were flying into him, biting him and sucking his blood. He didn’t want to know. There was nothing for it but to swipe them and smack them while scanning the grounds for a decent place to hide that would also afford him a decent view of the back door.
Over yonder he spotted a few bushes next to a fountain that provided a nice niche for our man to tuck himself into with an unobstructed view of the patio and sliding door and, more to the point, the hot young things coming and going. While he marveled at the gorgeous women, Jellwagger couldn’t help but enjoy the delicate sounds of the cherub pissing fresh water into the pond. And while our man was straight as an arrow, he had to give the dudes props for their pecs and six packs. Now he could see why folks like them would want to play strip poker. What he couldn’t understand, though, for the life of him, was why Pat would think him worthy of this crowd.
Two parties seemed to be in full swing here. You had the crowd on the patio, some sitting, others standing, all drinking, with the second party inside the house. Only there you had more space, so the youngsters could walk or run around from room to room, laughing, chasing each other in random spurts of sprinting, thumping up and down the stairs, and of course gravitating back to the kitchen when it was time for a refill. In college Jellwagger had heard of Bacchanals, but he hadn’t ever seen or heard of one happening in this day and age. Oh yeah, this was definitely a goddam Bacchanal, and if he wanted to stay in the good graces of the richest man in Los Angeles, our intrepid Van Nuys denizen was going to have to partake.
After a few minutes of folks coming and going, two guys and a girl were the only ones outside. They were playing cards, although Jellwagger couldn’t discern which game exactly. They chatted in subdued tones which, coupled with the trickling fountain, made it impossible for him to understand more than the occasional fragment. Maybe they were playing gin. Every once in a while, one of them, usually the woman, slammed a card on the table. Finally she ran out, for which she compensated by sliding the casual index finger on one of their arms. She played touchy feely with one, and then the other, and of course you see where this was going. Jellwagger, per that bulge in his pants, was rapt. The rest of the Bacchanalians must’ve known what was coming (no pun intended) because not a single one of them came out while these two Jacks tag teamed the Queen.
That’s when Jellwagger noticed the dress the woman had ripped off and thrown to the ocher wooden deck. It looked very familiar. The woman’s hoop earrings and sparkling necklace, which jangled this way and that while the two stallions had their way with her, also looked familiar. Hadn’t Stefania worn something like that the time she robbed his virginity from him in the most anti-climactic climax of all time?
Jellwagger thought back to when he first got here and more folks were outside. He could see some of those dresses, which may or may not have been a similar style to soundproofed gal’s dress, but Jellwagger did remember how fashionable they seemed in general, and how good they looked on those great bodies, as they would’ve on Stefania’s. Carla wasn’t bullshitting Jellwagger after all. Clothes and jewelry belonging to Just Because were being pilfered. Was there a traitor in Just Because’s midst?
Jellwagger’s cell rang.
“This is Jo Jellwag calling to see if her baby brother is alive and well.”
“You sure picked a helluva time.”
“Good timing doesn’t exist for you, kiddo, I accepted that long ago. In fact, I think the day I resigned myself to there never being a good time to talk to you was when I walked into your room and you were spanking that monkey with a vengeance that rivaled Charles Bronson’s in those awful Death Wish movies you used to watch all the time as if they wouldn’t survive the transition to the next gen home video format.”
“You promised you’d never bring that up again, the dolphin flooding incident or my past life as a Bronson fan.”
“What’s that shouting? You at a porn theater, Pee Wee?”
“I’m on the subway during rush hour. We’ve all had a long day.”
“I must’ve left a billion and one voicemails on your work number this morning. You didn’t have five measly minutes to pick up the phone?”
“As it happens, no. But guess who called? Go on, guess.”
“The gorgeous Mr. Dinner?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m thinking of someone else.”
“Does it matter to Moses?”
“Take a lousy guess, you traitor.”
“Well, if you’re calling me that, Mom must’ve called.”
“Incredible, huh? Donald Duck was floored.”
“Her son got shot, what do you expect? You’re probably the first person from New Jersey who managed to get shot in Van Nuys. And while that is definitely a mark of distinction, it’s not the kind of distinction you generally want. Although I don’t know. Play that card at any bar and I’m sure you’ll get some pussy.”
“The lust for pussy is the reason I’m caught in this tarantula’s web, Jo.”
“Did you just say that, Caligula? Wow.”
“I’m so goddam tired. Why am I here?”
“I just wanted to be sure you were alive and kicking, kiddo. No time for the existential crisis.”
“I seem to be having a lot of those lately.”
“I know, right?”
And that’s when Jellwagger noticed them, all of them, up on the second floor, crowding the windows as they took in the threesome. Some were in silhouette, but other faces he could see, including that one Chexican woman who wasn’t interested in the sex.
She was looking right at Jellwagger.
Yup, it was Gwak.
To be continued...
And now here he was, still out for the count, flan all over, Donald Duck smiling that shit-eating billed smile, slouched in the backseat of a very expensive sedan with tinted windows. No, this wasn’t the same sedan in which he’d ridden to House of Ta Ko, Sam T. Lee’s tan affair. This was a different one, but in about five seconds it would become incredibly familiar to Jellwagger.
The driver turned around and smacked our drugged man hard. Like every other type of noise that happens inside a car, the slap noise was amplified about a million times. In fact, what woke up Jellwagger? The slap or the sound of it?
“Up and at ‘em, Jellwagger!”
Jellwagger woke with such a start that he bounced off the plush leather seat and smacked his noggin against the plush ceiling of the import, sending himself right back into blackness.
The driver spent a good minute or so laughing his tailored ass off. When he recovered, he slapped Jellwagger some more. No go. He considered Donald Duck for an assist, but in the end Donald wasn’t needed. After the tenth or so slap, Jellwagger woke with a start again, only this time the driver had his other hand planted firmly on our drugged man’s shoulder should he do another ejector seat impersonation. “What did he say?!” Jellwagger said with wide, bloodshot eyes. “I want to know what really happened.”
“Well, sir,” the driver said. “I was given instructions to pick you up from the House of Ta Ko and take you back to your job, as your lunch break was lamentably at an end.”
Jellwagger’s world came back into focus. Smiling at him from the driver’s seat, with his black driving cap and black leather driving gloves, was Flip. “Flip! My man!”
“Sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“In a word, sir? My job.”
Jellwagger wiped the sweat off his forehead and was just about to ask for water when Flip handed him a chilled bottle. “Your name notwithstanding, you’re awesome, Flip.” Jellwagger sucked down the entire bottle in one pull. Flip handed him another. “My eyes weigh a ton, Flip.” Flip pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to Jellwagger. “What the fuck?”
“For your face, sir. Flan, sir.”
And that’s when the memory smacked Jellwagger harder than the felt ceiling and Flip’s palm combined. “Gwak!” He looked around. Of course Gwak wasn’t there, and only now did Jellwagger see they were parked on Figueroa right outside the Sanwa Bank building. He was so groggy from whatever Gwak had put in his flan that just the mere effort of looking out the window made him feel utterly drained.
“You ever have anesthesia, sir?”
“What do my wisdom teeth have to do with anything? Oh! That’s the only time I’ve been put under. And I know what you’re going to say. This is what it’s like when you come to.”
“Yes, sir.” Flip’s placid countenance reminded Jellwagger of hot cocoa and a bedtime story, one of those Babar books Mom used to read him.
“Jellwagger!” squawked a voice over his walkie-talkie cell. Of course, only one woman with red hair would have the balls to do that, and always at the worst possible time.
“Why did the bitch drug me, Flip?”
“The methodology of the Chexican mafia, sir, has been a mystery to all but them. And even some of their number, it is said, have scratched their heads from time to time over the decisions of the higher-ups. Now you know how Mr. Dinner feels.”
“You better answer me, bitch!”
“Speaking of, where is that billionaire rascal?”
“All I can divulge, sir, is that I was taking a cat nap when I received a call from Mr. Dinner to come downtown, stat, as you would say, to pick you up from House of Ta Ko and return you to your place of employ.”
“Jellwagger!”
“Hold that thought, Flip.” Jellwagger dug his cell out and said: “Starship Carrot Top, this is Houston, what’s your status?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day, what happened?”
“Oh, just a little something called my first day back on the job after a week off. What’s up?”
“I’ve got an assignment for you. A nice important one, so that if you fuck it up, it’s your ass going to jail for stalking.”
“Golly shucks, Carla, I haven’t caught up with my inbox yet.”
“It has to do with those photos. When do you get off tonight?”
Once again Jellwagger had to plumb the depths of his short term memory, weaving through the haze of Gwak’s concoction, until he saw in his mind’s eye the photos with Pat Dinner and Kit Figures. That’s when he remembered Gwak’s gorgeous smiling face telling him about her and Kit knowing each other since college, and that those photos were taken at some point since Kit did a Greg Louganis off the Santa Monica Pier. “I’m off at six.”
“Sweet. I’ll call you then. You better not bail on me, bitch.”
Jellwagger sat there like a vegetable with the cell in his hand long after Carla hung up.
Flip’s “Sir?” brought him back.
“How the fuck did I get into all this, Flip? Wait, don’t answer that.” He pocketed the phone, grabbed Donald, and opened the door. “I’m really sorry about ruining your cat nap.”
“Not at all, Jellwagger. Have a great rest of your day. And night.”
“Say hi to Pat for me, will ya?”
“I have a feeling you’ll be able to do that for yourself very soon.” He tipped his hat. “Until the next random encounter, sir.”
Jellwagger hobbled into the Sanwa lobby, offered a nod to Dathan, who in return flashed Jellwagger a smile a bit too bright for a simple hello, pairing it with one of those finger pointing jobs, a jab with his index straight out and his thumb straight up, a pistol shot greeting you typically see between two people who know something no one else in the vicinity knew. Whatever the deal was with Sam T. Lee, Jellwagger had a sick feeling in his gut that it was only just beginning.
The nausea got worse during the elevator ride up to forty-two. For a split second Jellwagger was convinced he’d barf, less because of his fear of the near future than the lingering effects of whatever Gwak had put in his flan. The elevator chime was just the ticket to snap our limping data entry hero out of it. He offered Laura the same smile he did Dathan before heading down the hallway.
“You okay, honey?” Laura called from behind.
“Don’t get shot and don’t get drugged, kiddo, that’s Jellwagger’s free advice of the day.”
His phone rang as soon as he sat down at his desk. He didn’t have the energy to check the caller ID, but something told him he didn’t need to. “Go fuck yourself,” he answered.
“My man! Flip phoned me.”
“Nice play on words, Pat.”
“Sorry about the flan, man.”
“And again!”
“I didn’t know they’d go that far. Drugging you with flan? Jeez, talk about rubbing it in. Get it? I’m on fire, Jellwagger.”
“Hold on, you knew they’d drug me?” His phone rang again. This time he did check the caller ID. The area code was New Jersey, and it wasn’t Jo. His mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Now?”
“It was sort of a test, I guess you could say. Or a warning salvo. I dunno. You’re the writer, you’ll think of a good metaphor.”
“Hold that thought, Pat. I’ll be back to kick your ass shortly.” He put Pat on hold and took the other call. “Ma?”
“Michael Johnson, where have you been?”
“Is that a trick question? I told you I was going back to work today.”
“I’ve been calling you.”
“You know, it’s really too bad you don’t believe in voicemail. Or e-mail. Or technology in general. Because if you did, getting in touch with me wouldn’t be so goddam complicated.”
“The reason I called you every day last week to check up on you is because I was in such a state about not being able to visit to make sure you got better. At least Jo took care of you.”
“Sure she did. I want you to believe that.”
I know what you’re thinking. We’re twenty-one episodes into the life and times of Michael Johnson Jellwag, and only now you’re getting to meet his mom, Eugenia Murphy Jellwag, toll collector extraordinaire for the New Jersey Turnpike. Well, what can I tell you? I wanted to introduce her earlier. After all, besides Jo, she’s the only other family Jellwagger’s got back in the Garden State. Technically, I have introduced her already, way back at the beginning of the first episode. I wanted her to visit Jellwagger the way Jo did, but Genie, as her friends call her, lacked a compelling reason. Plus, and more importantly, she mans the tollbooths for the Jersey Turnpike, a gig that, like the Jersey mafia, is very hard to get time off from. That also explains why she didn’t visit Jellwagger after he got shot, although she did call him every day, as you just heard. Working the tollbooths was anything but a cake walk. It’s not just a matter of standing there in the friggin’ booth and collecting dollar bills from people. What do you do with the suckers who complain about paying? What do you do about the anarchists? The Communists? Taking toll fare is like flying a plane. It’s not the actual flying that’s hard, it’s what you do when something goes wrong, when an engine blows, when a terrorist wants to crash the plane into the water. Collecting everyone’s due takes training, dedication, and sacrifice, and the fact that Genie Jellwag’s been doing it since before her boy was born speaks volumes about this Jersey girl’s constitution.
“Oh? You mean she didn’t? Funny, I’ve heard she’s been out there a couple times in the past couple weeks. Although I don’t know why.”
“Look, Ma, the feud between you and Jo has crossed the boundaries of absurdity. You read me, Ma? We crossed those boundaries eons ago. I bet if someone asked you why you and your daughter aren’t on speaking terms, you wouldn’t know the answer, would you? Huh, Ma? Would you?”
“Skinny bitch, pick up!” squawked Comet Head’s voice from his walkie-talkie cell.
“Turn down the radio, Michael Johnson. You kids these days.”
“Hang on, Ma.” He pressed a button. “You still there, Patsy Cline?”
“Take your time, my man. I’m doing a little something called multitasking, something you kids know nothing about.”
“Then how in Bel Air do you explain what I’m doing now?”
“Don’t piss me off, bitch!”
Jellwagger put Pat on hold and dug out his walkie-talkie cell. “Comet Fuck, this is Houston, what’s your status?” And much to his surprise, she laughed.
“You know something, Jellwagger? If it wasn’t for the whole stalking thing, you’d be all right.”
“So long as you keep shouting through your precious goddam walkie-talkie cell, Carla, I will continue being an insufferable vitriolic smartass.”
“Nice use of vitriolic, dude.”
“Actually no, that didn’t quite work. I was too eager to rub your face in it. Now what’s up? My watch reads half past two. Didn’t you say six?”
“A quick heads up to be sure you get something to eat before I call. It’s going to be a long night, Jellwagger, but you know what? Before you get pissed? Think of it as getting you to your twenty-hour quota that much faster.”
“Yahoo.”
“You ready for the gravy? You’ll be doing a good deed for the law. I’m talking about catching bad guys. Not loser wannabe stalkers who couldn’t get laid if the sky rained hot chicks, I’m talking real nasty fuckers.”
“You must be taking my encounter with Aaron the wrong way.”
“I know Stefania was the one who talked him down with her awesome nunnery skills while you still somehow got your dumbass shot. You’re no tough guy, I get it. But you are one sneaky, devious fuck. And those are the skills I need. By the way, has Pale Cock given you his ol’ ring-a-ding-doo?”
“Golly shucks, Carla, no, I haven’t heard from him since the two of you used my apartment as a cheap motel.”
“And Sam T. Lee? Has he reached out to you?”
“You must’ve had one too many beers from your awesome frozen steins, Carla. I’ve just been here tap-tap-tapping away all the doo da day. Catching up on mails, catching up on life. Funny how one week of a life can seem like a lifetime. Why, I think it was Jean-Paul Sarte who said…”
“Dude, whatever! My only point in calling was to make sure you eat something tonight before I put your skinny bitch ass to work. Peace out.”
Jellwagger got his mom back on the horn. “Ma, I gotta go. Work beckons in ways you couldn’t possibly fathom.”
“You want to know what Jo said about me?”
“I have no interest whatsoever.”
“Are you okay, Michael? Jo and I do talk once in a while, you know. If the topic is important enough.”
“And you’re telling me you found such a topic?”
“Of course, sweetie. You. Jo and I may have our grudges, but neither she nor I begrudge you anything. Well actually…. Oh forget it. You’re the man of the family now, and hiding in the Valley won’t change that. Jo went out there a couple weeks ago for reasons she won’t share. When she came back, she said she was worried. She didn’t say why, just that you might give the screenwriting racket a couple more years and then, if you haven’t sold anything at that point, perhaps take stock of your station.”
“Take stock of my station? Jo doesn’t talk like that.”
I probably should’ve mentioned that Genie Jellwag was a well read woman. She read on her lunch breaks, regardless of her shift, and she read every night (or morning, again depending on her shift that week) before hitting the sack. Jellwagger, as you’ve long since learned, is a bit of a bookworm himself. And now you know where he gets it from.
“Mind you, Michael, this was before you got shot.”
“Ma, as I explained every day last week, that was a total freak accident and has nothing to do with data entry for Powell and Powler’s marketing department. Aaron’s fine, he’s just got issues. Like an estranged wife and kid in Lancaster. And this job is perfect for an aspiring screenwriter, especially one penning Bruce Willis’s next masterpiece. You’ll see, Ma, I got a good feeling about this Danish. Now I’ve gotta run. Love you.” He pressed a button. “Pat Dinner, what’s the score?”
“When you off work, Jellwagger? I’ve got a job for you.”
“What an unbelievable coincidence. I have absolutely nothing to do tonight. And might I say it’s about time you put my gimpy ass to work. It’s been two weeks since that glorious night at Spago and The Standard.”
Pat’s cackling exploded out of the phone so that our man had to jerk his head away. “You are so right, my man. Of course, your getting plugged in the thigh put a crimp in my style.”
“Mine too.”
“But not to worry! The Dinner Company will make up for lost times. I’ve got a real doozey for you tonight.”
“Do I get to hitch a ride with Flip?”
“’Fraid not, Jellwagger.” Pat’s voice dropped a few octaves. “No, tonight I’ve got Flip on a different job. Personal one. Boring, you don’t want to hear it. Now you, my man, your night will be anything but boring.”
“Do tell.”
“Two words: Poker and sex.”
“Fuck yeah!”
“You play poker before, my man?”
“Sure,” Jellwagger said before he thought about it and realized he wasn’t entirely sure. He must have, right? Who lives to be thirty-one without playing a hand of cards? Jellwagger knew he’d played blackjack before. He played at least once with Jo and their father. It was one night eons ago when his mom was working the second shift on the turnpike. Jo and the old man kicked his ass.
“That’s great. I was going to offer you lessons, a primer before sending you into the lion’s den, but if you’ve got your shit together, that’s awesome.”
“Lion’s den, huh? So where exactly am I going tonight, Pat?”
“Good question. I’m not exactly sure what time the party’s starting. And the venue might change. But it is happening, my man, don’t you worry.”
“Speaking of worrying, what’s the deal with Sam T. Lee? Why would he hire a friggin’ contractor to drug me on my lunch break?”
“Another great question. I have no idea. To be frank with you, while Sam T. Lee and I are acquaintances and have the occasional drink together, his interests and mine do overlap in certain areas.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most roundabout way of saying he and Sam T. Lee were rivals... “You’re filthy rich, he’s filthy rich, I have no idea how either of you make your filthy richness, but at a certain point, what does it matter, right?”
Pat’s voice dipped again. “It matters. Or else my business interests… Oh you don’t want to hear about that boring stuff. Anyway, I swear I didn’t know about the drugging. Sam said he just wanted to have coffee and chat with you and give his personal thanks for making our evening out such an interesting one.” Pat’s breathing sounded hoarse.
Jellwagger’s cell vibrated across his desk. Not Carla’s walkie-talkie, but his main cell. The caller ID said private. He declined the call so the private person would get his voicemail.
“I’ll call you back, my man,” Pat said. “Speaking of business interests, one is beckoning right now. You’re off at six, right?”
“You betcha.”
“Talk then.”
“Jesus fuck, can I get some peace?” Jellwagger said after hanging up. He opened up Outlook to continue catching up on mails.
His cell vibrated again with the private number. He declined.
After deleting some spam, the shiny little bastard buzzed some more. “Grand Central Station, how may I direct your call?”
“Hey now, Hank Kingsley!”
“You’ve got balls calling me like this after what you pulled, Gwak-a-Fuck-Hole. What the hell was that?”
“You’re not taking the whole face in the flan thing personally, are you? Jellwagger! Jellwagger, Jellwagger, Jellwagger.”
“Oh if you weren’t a woman, Gwak…”
“Well I am a woman and can still beat you up. Bada-bing. Joking!”
“Did I wrong you in a past life or something? I mean honestly.”
“At least Flip picked you up. He’s awesome, right? I’ve always liked Flip.”
“And to rub it in in a very literal way, you slid your half-eaten flan over just in time for my face to do a Greg Louganis into it.”
“Oh I was just fucking with you.”
“Fucking with me?!” Jellwagger looked around and expected Mahoney’s face and the face of every other attorney in the vicinity to poke out of their offices. He held the phone away while Gwak cracked up.
Grant pinged him: “Are you having a fling out there, young Jellwagging star?”
At least the guy’s sense of humor was intact.
Gwak recovered enough to say: “Okay, the flan thingee was my own personal touch. Sam didn’t tell me to do that. Having fun’s not the guy’s style, with all respect.”
Jellwagger said, “But he did want you to drug me?” while typing back to Grant: “I sure picked a helluva week to stop sniffing glue.”
“Okay, fine, it was a warning,” she said. “Happy? I hate being mean, but…”
“Warning for what?”
Grant typed: “I’m starting to wish I hadn’t spammed you.”
“I guess to show you he’s not afraid to keep you in place if you step out of line.”
“Subtle.” He typed back to Grant: “That was pretty fucked up, man. I’m still trying to catch up on mails. How many of these prospects do you want in by EOD?”
“Look, in the end, Jellwagger? It was harmless, right? You’re not hurt. We got you back to work on time. Everything’s back to normal.”
“What does Sam T. Lee do for a living? What kinds of assignments will he give me?”
“I plead the Fifth and I plead the Fifth.”
Grant typed back: “Just do what you can and run for your life at five.”
“And you’re not his hitwoman?” He typed back: “I’ll see you one better and work til six. I’ll work til six all this week, how’s that?”
“I consult for him as a communications specialist.”
Grant typed: “I don’t deserve you.”
“So that’s what they’re calling your kind these days.”
“But I won’t be contacting you in a work capacity, Jellwagger. You’re on our side. The peeps I gotta talk to are from other companies.”
“Companies whose business interests overlap with Samuel Tijuana Lee’s. Like the business of a certain Mr. Dinner.”
“Pat and Sam aren’t exactly Hitler and Churchill, Jellwagger. They probably cooperate more than they compete. Sometimes it’s good to have someone of your rank and station doing the same thing as you. You can share best practices and that kind of thing. And even drivers. I know you won’t buy it, but part of why Sam got Flip to take you back was so you’d wake up to a familiar, friendly face and not freak out. Hey now, Hank Kingsley, I sure hope I become a friendly face to you.”
“Maybe you can be useful to me, Gwak. If I need an ear to bleed into, because maybe I won’t get Sam’s style at first or whatever, you can be that ear. An advisor of sorts. How’s that grab ya?”
“It grabs me, Jellwagger. Now seriously, you gots to go, and so do I. I’ll talk at ya.”
For the rest of the day, and mercifully so, Jellwagger’s phones were silent. He never saw Stu again. Grant IMed him one more time, just before he left around five-thirty, telling him to be absolutely sure he got out of Dodge at six sharp and not a second later. As six approached, his leg started throbbing again. By now he was just finishing e-mail catch up and trying his damnedest to make a nick in the stack Grant had been saving for him. To play off the throbbing, Jellwagger focused hard on the voice of Bruce Willis reading from Civilization and Its Discontents.
“Jellwagger, this is your savior calling,” squawked Carla’s voice. She sounded tipsy.
Jellwagger could play off the throbbing no more. He dropped three painkillers. He’d taken two before lunch and two this morning. The bottle said he should only be taking two at a time twice a day, but they obviously hadn’t accounted for redheaded stressors. Regardless, he couldn’t be Carla’s gopher and a cripple at the same time. If too many painkillers knocked him off his ass, then at least that’d be one less ass doing Carla’s bidding.
“I’m on my way out.”
“Stomach full? Ready for a full night of fun?”
“Yupper and you betcha,” he lied and lied.
“Get your skinny ass out of there and let me know when we can talk in private.”
“Ten four, Frau Comet.”
Guffaws came from down the corridor, previewing the arrival of Stu, who appeared with a beet-red smiling face, his sweaty hands gripping that poor mail cart. “Michael Johnson Jellwag! You are the man with the master plan, are you not, sir?”
Jellwagger got his stuff together, grabbed the Donald Duck cane, and got up. “Stu?” He limped past him toward the lobby. “Do your best.”
“That I will, sir.”
Jellwagger waited until he was outside on his way back to the red line station before he pulled out his cell. Rivers of pedestrians flowed by him in both directions. Evening rush hour applied to the sidewalks of downtown L.A. as much as it did the streets. But if you’ve ever braved the crowds of any big city center, you know it’s perfectly safe to have a private conversation. No one’s listening because they’re talking on their own cells, deep in their own conversations. “What’s the score, Carla?”
“Good news and shitty news. First, the shitty. What I want you to do for me tonight is going to keep you up late. I’m thinking midnight. Now to cheer you up? This’ll be a nice big chunk of those twenty hours you owe me. And another awesome thing? To show you how much I love you? I’m not making you venture outside the God-forsaken 818.”
“If you really love me, this job won’t even take me outside the comfy confines of Van Nuys.”
“Of course I’m making you go outside that shit hole. That blight on a blight. Look, you stalked me, nothing changes that, but I am not, repeat not, that vindictive. I’m getting revenge just having your punk ass in my felt pocket, but I won’t rub it in.”
“You’re a true scholar. So WTF am I going?”
“Too risky. Someone could hear.”
“WTF cares what you say?”
“Won’t do it.”
“Yeah, sure, it’s all about you. Everyone walking by, with all their problems and stress and everything else, they are all just waiting with bated breath to hear the name of the lion’s den you’re throwing me into.”
“Call me back when you’re in the Valley, bitch. And the fact that you’re going there willingly, and that you’re actually looking forward to getting back to Van Not So Nuys, is absolutely sickening. Maybe when you’re no longer my vassal state, I can give you some therapist referrals. We’ve got a ton of them here on the Westside. It’s therapy capital.” She hung up.
His other cell rang as he boarded the red line subway at Seventh Street Metro. It was standing room only. Jellwagger squeezed between two impeccably dressed guys who were too busy reading their smartphones to give a shit about affording him a slightly wider berth. “You en route, my man?”
“You know what’s funny, Pat? I never thought my cell would work down here.”
“It probably doesn’t normally. My cell’s special, though. It’s got this extra strong satellite signal that links it to the number I’m calling. So right now, for all intents and purposes, your cell is as super-cool-dude as mine.”
Jellwagger laughed. Pat didn’t. “Really, Pat? Wow, that’s neat. Say, you used the word dude just then. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you say that.”
“I’ve been living in the City of Angeles a long time, my man.”
“I happen to know someone else who uses that word. You might know her. Carla Houde?”
He cracked up. Jellwagger would’ve held the phone away to spare his eardrum, but he had no room. One of the guys next to him shot him a look. “You’re thinking…?” Pat began. “Just because she and I…? Ha ha!” Fuckin’ A. The whole goddam train could hear Pat’s cackling. “Nice one, Jellwagger. But, uh, no. Hot sex a marriage makes not.”
“Well said, Yoda.”
“And sex with her has always been hot. Her being a backstabbing, conniving bitch has luckily had no effect on that. Aw shit, see what you did, you gopher? You’ve gotten me all pissed off and worked up. Fuck her up the ass, man, and this time I mean that in a bad way!”
Jellwagger hung up. He knew he was risking Pat reading him the Riot Act, but this Jellwagger, at this particular hour, simply did not have the energy to put up with some weird billionaire embarrassing him in front of a train full of people. His cell buzzed a few more times during the ride home, and each time Jellwagger pressed Decline.
When he was safe and sound in Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, he called back. “I guess your super satellite isn’t so super, Pat. There we were, having a pleasant chat, and…BLOOP! The signal dropped.”
“God damned technology, eh, Jellwagger?” He cackled. So much for the Riot Act. “So what’s the score?”
“I’m sitting in Shitty Shitty Bang Bang in the North Hollywood red line parking lot, awaiting Dinner time.”
“Awesome double entendre.”
“You can thank a bunch of unproduced scripts.”
“Check this out, my man. How’s a nice night of strip poker grab you?”
“My hearing must be failing me. At first I thought you said strip poker…”
“And you might get to fuck one of the hot chicks you’ll be playing with. And you don’t have to leave the Valley. Come on, Jellwagger, it’s a win-win all around.”
“Where exactly is it?”
Pat gave him the address. It was south of Ventura, up in the Sherman Oaks hills, off Sepulveda Blvd. During those times when the 405 was too jammed, Sepulveda was the alternate link between the Valley and the Westside. Jellwagger had driven the route enough times to have a clear picture in his mind of the houses up there. That he’d actually get to go inside one of them made him reconsider just how bad being a billionaire’s gopher could be. “Now back to the strip poker, don’t forget it’s gambling. So let’s hope Lady Luck is on your side tonight.”
“I can handle poker. And if they have booze, getting undressed in front of strangers may not be so bad.”
“When I said gambling, I was referring to the women. You need luck to score with a hot rich chick. Especially you. But if you love the underdog story, then you should be all over the story I’m making you part of.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but is there a particular reason you want me to play strip poker and get laid in Sherman Oaks?”
“I’m turning you into a super hero, Jellwagger. You’ve already got the name, now you just need the skills.”
“I knew you had my back, Dinner.”
“There’s something rotten in the state of Sherman Oaks, and you’re the Hamlet to rip shit up.”
“I never thought I’d hear someone say something like that to me.”
“Here’s what you do.” Pat explained how he wanted Jellwagger to stake out the joint and then move in at just the right time.
“Sounds risky, Pat.”
“They’ll be expecting you, my man. Just tell them what I told you, and even if they misunderstand you, which is possible in an area like that, everything should still go off without a hitch.”
“Simple. Yet ungodly complicated.”
“In a word, life.”
“Sounds like an educational assignment. I’ll talk at ya.”
“One more thing before I cut the tether. Don’t trust a soul. If you do manage to land yourself a hottie, she’ll most likely be the least trustworthy of the bunch.”
“Say, these people don’t work for any of your rivals, do they?”
“Rivals?”
“Jellwagger!” squawked the all-too-familiar madam’s voice. “Respond in five seconds or I’ll have you arrested for being the most demented stalker this side of the Pecos.”
“You’re leaving out a lot of info, Pat.”
“Your radio on, my man?”
“I thought that was from your end,” Jellwagger said. He muted his cell and picked up the walkie-talkie. “I’m flirting with a hot chick, Carla, I’ll be with you shortly.”
“You’ve got balls, dude, I’ll give you that.”
He muted the walkie-talkie and went back to Pat in time to hear him say:
“…can’t tell you too much, just be careful.”
“Oh come on, Pat, help a brother out. Who the hell are these people? Why am I playing strip poker with them? What if I don’t score?”
“Even Babe Ruth couldn’t clear the fence every game. What I want you to do is observe. Follow the instructions I gave you and play your role. Be sure to retain your observations in your noodle so you can report back to me. Coolioz?”
Pat hung up before Jellwagger could give him a coolioz in the affirmative. He hopped back onto the walk-talkie with She Who Must Not Be Named. “Okay, Madam Carla, pun intended, my shift is done, my stomach is full, I’m ready for Freddie.”
“I have a feeling my being too nice to you has thrown you off your game.”
“I’m sorry, I could’ve sworn you just said nice…”
“In twenty-four hours, I let you eat my ass and fuck me in the shower, and then I make sure you’re well fed before I send you on an important assignment that’ll bring you much closer to paying off your vassal debt to me.”
“You’re right, you’re a veritable Santa Claus, keep going.”
“To cap off the gift of giving, I’m giving you an assignment that doesn’t amount to much more than a stakeout. But it’s really important. Like, I basically need you to confirm that the pricks I suspect of stealing from Just Because are actually the ones. So here’s the deal...” Carla laid it all out.
“Sherman Oaks hills, eh?” Jellwagger said. How awesome was that? She was sending him to the same neighborhood where Pat was sending him. How awesome would it be if she wanted him to stakeout the same address? “So what’s the address?”
When she said it, he thought he was dreaming.
“Say it again.”
And she did. Yes, it was definitely the same address. “You there, dude?”
“What? Oh yeah. Sorry. My full stomach was distracting me. You’ve got friends in awesome places.”
“I would if I had any friends there. But I’m pretty sure this is home base for those fucks stealing from me.”
“Is there a decent place for me to hide out while I stakeout? And who are these people? Who do they work for? Why would they steal from you?”
“Look at it this way, Jellwagger, it’ll be a journey of discovery.”
“Jesus!”
“I’m serious. Note what you see. You want to bring something to write with, just so you don’t miss anything? Awesome. Because if you do miss something, I’ll find out in the end.”
“I feel like shit for spying on you, I want to make it up to you, but you’re being cryptic for no good reason.”
“I have very good reason.”
“And there we have a straight answer.”
“By midnight, those who are staying there for the night will be in, and those leaving will be gone. That’s when you go straight home and call me and give me a full report.”
“How full are we talking?”
“Oh shit, I almost forgot. Don’t park near the address. Park at least a mile away, maybe a bit further. Maybe you should just leave your car at the NoHo station and walk there.”
“No fucking way am I walking from here. Bye, honey.”
Jellwagger stopped at an In-N-Out Burger and grabbed an animal-style beefwich and an order of those awesome fries. Convincing Carla he’d eaten dinner and was good to go til sunup only emphasized the empty pit in his stomach. He chomped on that fat burger with a vengeance as he wound his way up the curvaceous streets into the hills above Sherman Oaks, letting the animal grease drip down his chin with impunity. He wasn’t livid with Pat and Carla so much as the situation. No, he couldn’t get too mad at those billionaires. In the end, Jellwagger was responsible for this mess, hence his punishing himself, or at least his shirt, with burger fat. God damn, though, if the fries didn’t make the whole righteous indignation shtick totally worth it.
He could still get pissed at Carla if he wanted to. Sure, he’d stalked her, but she was taking the payback thing way too far, and they both knew it. If she had a problem with where he parked Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, she could go fuck herself. In fact, if she was embarrassed about it, and these people were stealing from her, that could only mean they hated her guts. And if they hated her, and she hated Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, that meant they would either adore Shitty Shitty Bang Bang or at least not give a shitty shitty bang bang if Jellwagger parked it in their vicinity.
As it turned out, what anyone’s opinions about his car were didn’t matter. The block on which this gorgeous two-story house with the marble columns and balconies sat was filled with cars, as were the adjacent blocks. This burger-scarfing data entry clerk had to drive another quarter-mile or so up the hill, almost to Mulholland Drive on the hill’s crest. Perhaps that wouldn’t’ve been a long walk for you or me, but for Michael Johnson Jellwag, on this particular night and just barely equipped with a negligible reserve of energy, when all he wanted to do was go home and get some work done on Danish before toasting Bruce Willis and getting a good night’s shuteye to cure the lingering effects of Gwak’s drug, any appreciable walk was a five-alarm suck fest.
The walk notwithstanding, where the fuck was he going to hide during the stakeout? Didn’t cops usually conduct stakeouts from their car? Or from a conveniently abandoned house across the street? When he drove by just now, tons of cars were all over the place. No doubt everyone was worn out from horrifically exhausting days telling their production assistants to fetch coffee, so if they spotted this particular Jellwagger snooping around and spying, they’d have his balls strung up faster than you can say Jack Nicholson’s recycling container.
And that’s why this itty bitty Jellwagger swung a left at the next intersection, a couple blocks shy of the house in question. You should know that Jellwagger is not exactly dealing with your average grid layout you see in most big cities. You take our nation’s capital, for instance: Perfect grid split into four quadrants with Capitol Hill in the middle. Then you’ve got the Big Apple with her numbered streets and avenues. Couldn’t be easier, right? Well, Jellwagger was now in a realm that directly refuted the whole idea of ease and convenience. The streets lining the hills above L.A. and the San Fernando Valley, collectively known as the Santa Monica Mountains, or simply the hill if you were a yokel, must’ve been mapped out by a gang of Santa Monica ninja monkeys on acid. Seriously, it’s like they took a map and just went to town on it with crayons or what have you. And then paid contractors enough dough not to give a shit. Jellwagger was on the Valley side of the hill, specifically the Sherman Oaks section. Sherman Oaks, like all the Valley neighborhoods that abutted the hill, had a section on the hill itself, all the way up to Mulholland, which is where the rest of L.A. began with, depending on which part of the hill you were on, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Los Feliz, all those tony ‘hoods you and I will never be able to afford. Not that we’d want to, right? Not if they’re this fucked up.
As you can tell, though, Jellwagger wasn’t letting any of this slow him down. Just look at our man limp right along there, gripping Donald Duck with purpose as the two of them rounded the bend to the next intersection and swung a right. The intersection after that came quickly. The occasional Bentley or Benz zoomed by with no respect for the turns that would’ve baffled Shitty Shitty Bang Bang.
In a few minutes Jellwagger and Mr. Duck arrived at the house whose location on this side of the block corresponded to the house Carla and Pat wanted him to stake out and play strip poker at, respectively, on the other side of the block. Whoever owned this place must’ve imported a section of the Congo. Honestly, how was our favorite data entry clerk supposed to find his way to the backyard?
What would John McClane do?
And that’s all Jellwagger had to ask himself before he, with Donald at his side, or rather, in his fist, set off up the steep driveway. A spotlight flicked on when he reached the top while a dog started barking its carnivorous head off from somewhere inside. Most of the windows were dark. Jellwagger used Donald the way folks in the Congo use a machete to hack his way through the nearly impenetrable foliage along the side of the house. Donald didn’t have a blade, of course, but don’t you know our man compensated for that by beating the living shit out of each and every piece of vegetation. Judging by the steady volume of the barking, the damned man eater seemed to be following Jellwagger through the house.
The giant leaves, fronds, and bushes looked funky in the half-light. The ones that didn’t break or fall swung back at our man here, swiping dew on his forehead and cheeks. One got him right on the mouth, a nice wet kiss. Their bizarre shapes reminded Jellwagger of that little art exhibition Grant and Zach took him to, which in turn made him think of Grace, since that’s where they met. With sweat pouring down his face while he and Donald punished the brambles, he wondered what she was doing right now. Was she ringing up customers at Amoeba? Or was she at home toiling over her next opus?
The backyard was more jungle. It did have a center area relatively clear of foliage, but our man here could easily avoid that exposure. In no time he was at the back fence, a towering solid wall of ocher wood. Thanks both to the tree by the corner of the yard and the painkillers still going strong, Jellwagger got over that ocher. And apparently Scooby Doo back there had already gotten over him. The house was dead silent.
He stepped from the top of the fence right onto the thick branch of a tree on the strip poker property. This backyard was huge, and apparently the strip poker players had gotten on the Congo bandwagon as well. Shit, they were driving this wagon. We’re talking Sherwood Forest here. A good hundred feet or more, filled with nature, separated Jellwagger from the back door. While that meant it unlikely he’d be spotted, he himself couldn’t see much either. Plus, and this was always the downside to well-tended grounds, the bugs were kicking his ass up and down this overpriced block. He didn’t know what sorts of things were flying into him, biting him and sucking his blood. He didn’t want to know. There was nothing for it but to swipe them and smack them while scanning the grounds for a decent place to hide that would also afford him a decent view of the back door.
Over yonder he spotted a few bushes next to a fountain that provided a nice niche for our man to tuck himself into with an unobstructed view of the patio and sliding door and, more to the point, the hot young things coming and going. While he marveled at the gorgeous women, Jellwagger couldn’t help but enjoy the delicate sounds of the cherub pissing fresh water into the pond. And while our man was straight as an arrow, he had to give the dudes props for their pecs and six packs. Now he could see why folks like them would want to play strip poker. What he couldn’t understand, though, for the life of him, was why Pat would think him worthy of this crowd.
Two parties seemed to be in full swing here. You had the crowd on the patio, some sitting, others standing, all drinking, with the second party inside the house. Only there you had more space, so the youngsters could walk or run around from room to room, laughing, chasing each other in random spurts of sprinting, thumping up and down the stairs, and of course gravitating back to the kitchen when it was time for a refill. In college Jellwagger had heard of Bacchanals, but he hadn’t ever seen or heard of one happening in this day and age. Oh yeah, this was definitely a goddam Bacchanal, and if he wanted to stay in the good graces of the richest man in Los Angeles, our intrepid Van Nuys denizen was going to have to partake.
After a few minutes of folks coming and going, two guys and a girl were the only ones outside. They were playing cards, although Jellwagger couldn’t discern which game exactly. They chatted in subdued tones which, coupled with the trickling fountain, made it impossible for him to understand more than the occasional fragment. Maybe they were playing gin. Every once in a while, one of them, usually the woman, slammed a card on the table. Finally she ran out, for which she compensated by sliding the casual index finger on one of their arms. She played touchy feely with one, and then the other, and of course you see where this was going. Jellwagger, per that bulge in his pants, was rapt. The rest of the Bacchanalians must’ve known what was coming (no pun intended) because not a single one of them came out while these two Jacks tag teamed the Queen.
That’s when Jellwagger noticed the dress the woman had ripped off and thrown to the ocher wooden deck. It looked very familiar. The woman’s hoop earrings and sparkling necklace, which jangled this way and that while the two stallions had their way with her, also looked familiar. Hadn’t Stefania worn something like that the time she robbed his virginity from him in the most anti-climactic climax of all time?
Jellwagger thought back to when he first got here and more folks were outside. He could see some of those dresses, which may or may not have been a similar style to soundproofed gal’s dress, but Jellwagger did remember how fashionable they seemed in general, and how good they looked on those great bodies, as they would’ve on Stefania’s. Carla wasn’t bullshitting Jellwagger after all. Clothes and jewelry belonging to Just Because were being pilfered. Was there a traitor in Just Because’s midst?
Jellwagger’s cell rang.
“This is Jo Jellwag calling to see if her baby brother is alive and well.”
“You sure picked a helluva time.”
“Good timing doesn’t exist for you, kiddo, I accepted that long ago. In fact, I think the day I resigned myself to there never being a good time to talk to you was when I walked into your room and you were spanking that monkey with a vengeance that rivaled Charles Bronson’s in those awful Death Wish movies you used to watch all the time as if they wouldn’t survive the transition to the next gen home video format.”
“You promised you’d never bring that up again, the dolphin flooding incident or my past life as a Bronson fan.”
“What’s that shouting? You at a porn theater, Pee Wee?”
“I’m on the subway during rush hour. We’ve all had a long day.”
“I must’ve left a billion and one voicemails on your work number this morning. You didn’t have five measly minutes to pick up the phone?”
“As it happens, no. But guess who called? Go on, guess.”
“The gorgeous Mr. Dinner?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m thinking of someone else.”
“Does it matter to Moses?”
“Take a lousy guess, you traitor.”
“Well, if you’re calling me that, Mom must’ve called.”
“Incredible, huh? Donald Duck was floored.”
“Her son got shot, what do you expect? You’re probably the first person from New Jersey who managed to get shot in Van Nuys. And while that is definitely a mark of distinction, it’s not the kind of distinction you generally want. Although I don’t know. Play that card at any bar and I’m sure you’ll get some pussy.”
“The lust for pussy is the reason I’m caught in this tarantula’s web, Jo.”
“Did you just say that, Caligula? Wow.”
“I’m so goddam tired. Why am I here?”
“I just wanted to be sure you were alive and kicking, kiddo. No time for the existential crisis.”
“I seem to be having a lot of those lately.”
“I know, right?”
And that’s when Jellwagger noticed them, all of them, up on the second floor, crowding the windows as they took in the threesome. Some were in silhouette, but other faces he could see, including that one Chexican woman who wasn’t interested in the sex.
She was looking right at Jellwagger.
Yup, it was Gwak.
To be continued...
