by C. D. Payne
“They should be. They cost $6,800. Dr. Rudolpho is such a genius. Of course, it’s always good to get a second opinion—even if you are just a horny teenage boy. I saw you on TV last week.”
“Oh?”
“I think we may be kindred spirits because your life is even more of a mess than mine. And we’re both terribly in love with members of the Saunders family.”
“So you were the snoop who went through my stuff!”
“I had to, Nick. I’ll do anything to win Paulo’s love. Just as you would walk over flaming hot coals for his sister Sheeni.”
“Yes, I suppose I would. Is that why you became Asian?”
“Uh-huh. I read in a magazine that all Caucasian men are fascinated by Oriental women. What do you think?”
“I think you’re pretty fascinating.”
“Thanks, Nick. And thanks for the flattering erection. I just wish Paulo felt the same. Why do you suppose he’s so stuck on Lacey?”
“Well, she’s beautiful, outgoing, fun to be with, refreshingly unaffected …”
“Unaffected, huh? Now there’s an overrated quality!”
3:45 p.m. On my way to East Los Angeles with Paul after lunch I mailed a letter to Trent. It contained one sheet of brown paper (blank) wrapped around ten crisp $100 bills. That should keep the newlyweds in groceries for a while. I only wish some anonymous donor would underwrite my future marriage to you know who.
After dropping in on a musician pal, Paul drove me to meet Mr. Castillo, the document specialist. He was a friendly white-haired man who conducts his business out of a single-car garage behind his modest stucco house.
“A new identity,” he said, wetting his pencil. “Making a fresh start. That’s nice. And what name have you decided on?”
“Nick Dillinger,” I replied, spelling it out for him.
“How about a nice middle name too? No extra charge.”
Sure, why not? “OK, uh, Sinatra.”
“A man with musical taste,” Mr. Castillo commented approvingly to Paul. “And how old would Mr. Nick Sinatra Dillinger like to be?”
I replied without hesitation, “Eighteen.”
“Eighteen. A very nice age. Me, I would like to be 35, but 18 will look very good on you—especially in a few years. And what birthday would you like? We have 365 to choose from.”
“December 12.” If it was good enough for Frank, it’s good enough for me.
“Very nice, Nick. Not too close to Christmas, but in the holiday spirit. We’ll have your driver’s license ready in two days. That will be $200 in advance.”
“Two hundred dollars?” I asked, shocked. “That seems like a lot of money for a fake ID.”
“There’s nothing fake about it,” Mr. Castillo replied, smiling. “All of our materials come straight from the DMV. The governor himself couldn’t tell the difference. And what else will you be needing? A birth certificate? A Social Security card? Maybe a nice U.S. passport so you can visit all those Dillingers back in the old country?”
Mr. Castillo talked me into the whole package for an even grand. I fished the hundreds from my money belt, he snapped a couple of instant photos with an oversized camera, shook my hand, and said, “Welcome to America, Mr. Dillinger.”
What a relief. May I never hear that despised name Twisp ever again!
11:30 p.m. Since Paul and Lacey are being so nice in letting me hide out in their cave, I made dinner again (a streamlined version of Mrs. Ferguson’s famous Okie pot roast). The petite cabana kitchen is a challenge: just a two-burner hotplate and a microwave. Still, I didn’t hear any complaints from my hosts. After washing up, I accepted an invitation from Connie to go hear Paul and his new trio at a small club out in the Valley. Her flashy red Mercedes convertible roadster only seats two, so the invitation wasn’t extended to Lacey, who was dead on her feet anyway from having spent the entire afternoon giving Brad Pitt’s executive assistant a total makeover.
On the drive out to the Valley I filled in Connie on the events of the past few weeks.
“Sounds good, Nick,” she said, powering her fabulous rod through a red light. “The way I see it you only made two crucial blunders.”
“What?” I demanded, alarmed.
“Number one: You got Trent married.”
“But that was the whole point!”
“So you say. Nick, my Paulo is very intelligent. Is your Sheeni smart?”
“She has enough brains for 12 normal people.”
“Paulo too. OK, you know what he says? He says people only want what they cannot have.”
“That sounds rather defeatist.”
“Maybe, but there’s a lot of truth in it. First Sheeni had Trent and then she dumped him. She didn’t want him anymore. So you go and get the guy married to Apurva. Now—boom—he’s someone she cannot have.”
“That’s right,” I affirmed, “because he’s married.”
“That doesn’t stop anyone, Nick. You think I would stop throwing myself at Paulo if—God forbid—he should marry Lacey? A marriage license is just more gasoline on the flames.”
“I don’t know if I agree with any of that, Connie.”
“Nick, you’re a clever guy, but really you should run these schemes by a woman first. It’s a good thing you met me.”
“OK,” I sighed. “What was my other blunder?”
“Giving Sheeni all your money.”
“But she’s only safeguarding it for me temporarily.”
“Uh-huh. Nick, would it come as a surprise to you if I told you that women are attracted to men with money?”
“I suppose not.”
“That’s right. It’s because we’re looking for good providers—guys who can take care of all the children we’re probably not going to have.”
“But you’re attracted to Paul. He’s not rich.”
“I can afford an artsy intellectual, Nick. I’m already loaded. I know my babies aren’t going to starve.”
“Oh, right.”
“So in Sheeni’s mind you’ve just gone from being a lover with money to a leech without money. From being an asset to a liability. Now she has this big problem: you want your money back.”
“You’re damn right I do.”
“Good luck, Nick. You’re going to need it.”
The club was a small Van Nuys storefront that had been remodeled (with sledgehammers and wrecking bars?) into an intimate jazz venue. I was too upset by what Connie had said to pay much attention to the music, which was complex, cerebral, intense, discursive—everything except engaging. But the sparse audience of trendy Valley jazzophiles dug it in their laid-back way. Paul blew his horn, a thin black man massaged the electric piano, an older fellow with a goatee achieved cosmic fusion with his drums, and François gulped down three glasses of an expensive merlot procured through the force of Connie’s glamorous charisma. Bill Gates should tip like she does. My spirits revived slightly on the ride home when my driver let François nuzzle her perfumed ear.
“More proof of Paulo’s theory,” she commented. “Nick, you want me because you cannot have me.”
“Hardly,” I slurred. “I want you because I am drunk, miserable, lonely, and sought by every police jurisdiction in the state.”
“You’re kinda cute, Nick. But I’m not into incest.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Do the calculations, guy. If all goes as we hope, you’ll soon be my brother-in-law.”
I suppose she’s right, but it sure didn’t feel like a sister’s ear that François was nibbling.
SUNDAY, March 14 — By the time I crawled out of my sleeping bag everyone had departed for parts unknown. Not even a donut in sight. I wandered out into the blazing sunshine, and found the hot tub occupied by a stocky middle-aged bald guy exhibiting nearly as much body hair as my pal Fuzzy. He didn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Hi, Nick,” he said. “The water’s a perfect 104 degrees. Hop in, kid.”
“OK.” I shed my clothes and slipped into the sw
irling water. It felt good, though I hoped I wouldn’t turn the same color of well-done corned-beef as my companion’s barrel chest and protruding gut.
“I’m Bernard Krusinowski,” he said, extending a meaty paw. “Call me Bernie.”
I shook his hand. “Nick Twi—uh, Dillinger.”
“Well, Nick, what do you think of my little patch of paradise?”
“It’s very nice, uh, Bernie. It’s the nicest pool I’ve ever seen.”
“Would you believe six years ago this was just a washed-out ravine?”
“No way could I believe that.”
“Your sister is a beautiful woman, Nick.”
I was confused. Was he talking about a Twisp? “Oh, do you know Joanie?”
“Who’s Joanie? I’m talking about Lacey. Connie told me you’re visiting your sister for a while.”
“Oh, right.”
“So how come her name isn’t Dillinger? I understood she’s never been married.”
“Uh, she’s my half-sister,” I lied. “We have different fathers.”
“She’s just about the most beautiful gal I’ve ever seen. Gives a mean haircut too, if you don’t mind having a professional barber touch things up later. ’Course, my wife Rita likes her too. Thinks she’s a mighty nice gal. Respects her a lot. You won’t find Lacey hopping into hot tubs with just anybody. I’ve invited her myself. Just joking around, of course. Turned me down flat. Now I got her brother instead. Can’t see much of a family resemblance though. What do you think of my daughter?”
“Uh, she’s very nice.”
“Got a wild streak in her,” he winked. “Just like her dad. Thought her mother was going to die when Connie came back from Mexico looking like a Chinese laundry girl. I told her don’t worry, the grandkids will still come out Polish. Yep, she’s a wild one.”
“She’s wild all right,” I laughed.
A coarse wet hand locked onto my arm. “Just stay out of her pants, fella,” he hissed. “And no more hopping buck naked into this hot tub with her.”
I gulped. “Oh, OK, Mr. Krusinowski.”
He unclamped my arm and smiled. “Call me Bernie, Nick. Call me Bernie.”
11:30 a.m. After exiting the tub as gracefully as I could, I hid out in the cave until Paul and Lacey returned with breakfast croissants and the Sunday Times. I alerted them that their landlord was now under the impression that Lacey and I were related.
“Isn’t he the sweetest guy?” asked Lacey. “All those millions, but so down-to-earth. He treats us just like family.”
“You especially, dearest, he would enjoy treating like family,” remarked Paul, reading the entertainment section.
Lacey ruffled my hair. “Paulie’s jealous, Nick. He hates the idea of being possessive, but he’s just as bad as the rest of you fellows. Of course, all he has to do is ask me to marry him.”
“Don’t make me barf,” replied Paul, turning the page.
Boy, those Saunders kids sure bring a lot of enthusiasm to any discussion of marriage. And their parents haven’t even gone through an ugly, soul-searing divorce.
2:30 p.m. Speaking of body hair, I just made a long-distance call to the reigning North American Junior Champion.
“Nick! Where are you?” Fuzzy exclaimed. “It’s like you just disappeared into thin air.”
“I had to cut out, Frank. Somebody ratted on me to the FBI.”
“Damn, Nick. So that’s why the cops were at school on Friday. I thought maybe they were after Bruno for finking out on his public service. Where are you?”
“I better not say, Frank, in case your phone line is tapped. I’m safe for now though. Have you seen any cops around my house?”
“Just Bruno snooping as usual. He better not mess with Apurva, or Trent will deck him. They moved in, you know.”
“I know. Will your parents kick them out?”
“Nah, my dad golfs with Trent’s dad, and I hear they worked something out. Lana thinks it’s pretty cool they got married. They’re having sex every single night and there’s not a damn thing their parents can do about it.”
“How’s it going with Lana?”
“Great. I’m already up to base two-and-a-half. You’re right, Nick, she’s one hot tamale.”
“What’s the half base?”
“Well, I almost got to third base, but she was wearing a sanitary napkin.”
“God, Frank, that’s gross.”
“I know, Nick, but I was totally high at the time. Lana gets the most awesome weed. Don’t spread it around, but I think her father may be a grower.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, she lives way out in the boonies, she’s totally mum on the subject, and she’s incredibly well-supplied.”
“Frank, I may have found you the world’s ultimate girlfriend.”
“I know, Nick. If she was beautiful, I’d already be saving up for our tickets to Mississippi.”
3:45 p.m. Sheeni just phoned while I was killing time by the pool until Paul and Lacey finished their “nap” in the cave. I took the call on a weather-resistant cordless phone disguised to look like a native succulent.
“Nickie, I have shocking news!”
Instant circulatory arrest.
“What’s happened?” I gasped.
“I just found out from Vijay: Trent has resigned from the swim team!”
Alarm waned, confusion waxed. “So?”
“So he was the best swimmer on the team. It’s a disaster for Redwood High.”
“Sheeni, as I recall you have no school spirit and zero interest in athletics. Why do you care what happens to the swim team?”
“It’s all that Apurva’s fault. She’s ruining his life. He’s had to get an after-school job! He’s going to be lugging bags of concrete for Fuzzy DeFalco’s mafioso father.”
“Well, hard work never hurt anybody.”
“Nickie, you sound just like a Republican. Trent should be devoting his free time to the further enrichment of his extraordinary mind. This precipitous and premature marriage is a fiasco.”
Confusion waned, alarm rewaxed. “Sheeni, quitting the swim team is a small price to pay for a fulfilling marriage with the woman he loves. Trent and Apurva are very happy. You shouldn’t interfere.”
“Who says I’m interfering? And how do you know they’re happy? As I recall, you’re 600 miles away.”
“Sheeni, darling, you have to accept that they’re married. Apurva may already be expecting.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. Trent was always very careful when—”
“When what?” I demanded.
“Well, he’s always been a sensible person … when driving, for example.”
Yeah, right. Time to change the subject.
“Sheeni, have you set up an account yet for me with your bank?”
“Of course not, Nick. You have to do that yourself. I could request that they mail the paperwork to you, if you like.”
“Sheeni, maybe you should just send me a check for the full amount.”
“Don’t be silly, Nickie. How would you ever cash it? Your money’s safe. I’ll make sure you get all the interest. Don’t you trust me?”
I certainly want to, darling. But so far everything that Connie warned me about seems to be coming true.
9:15 p.m. Connie took me out for dinner at a restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard that was so exclusive it had no sign, an unlisted phone number, and you had to sneak into it from the loading dock of an appliance store. Needless to say, it was jammed with L.A.’s Celebrity Elite, but Connie managed to secure us a nice table in a prime corner. If that wasn’t Tom Cruise dining at the table next to ours, it was his studio stand-in.
“Nick, do try to look older,” she said, after our snotty waiter refused to bring her the wine list. “I feel like I’m dining with a child star.” Both eyes were dark and her accent was back.
“I haven’t shaved for four days,” I pointed out. “I think I’m starting to look like Don Johnson.”
“More like Donna Johnson,” she replied, scanning the menu.
I let her order for both of us; the menu prices had momentarily paralyzed my vocal cords. When I recovered, I recounted this morning’s hot-tub run-in with her father.
“Don’t worry about Daddy, Nick. He always feels a need to intimidate any male who ventures onto on his property. It’s an alpha dog territorial thing. You’re lucky he didn’t piss on your leg.”
“But how did he know we were in the hot tub together? You can’t see it from your house.”
“Oh, he probably looked at the videos.”
“What videos?”
“There are security cameras concealed all over the grounds, Nick. Daddy likes to review the tapes. I think he’s hoping to spot Lacey in the hot tub. But she always wears a bathing suit—the prude.”
“You don’t mind your father looking at you naked?”
“Why should I, Nick? He used to change my diapers.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Still, I wouldn’t want my mother ogling me in the buff—especially if I had recently undergone successful augmentation surgery. After I scarfed down my appetizer—two tiny, oddly fragrant pancakes—my companion informed me that they contained the ground-up thoraxes of a giant Yucatan beetle. Yuck, and no wine to wash it down with either. I chugged some of my pricey Swiss sparkling water.
After ascertaining that my entrée was indeed salmon, I asked Connie if she thought her dad was really interested in Lacey.
“I certainly hope so, Nick. Why else do you think I invited those two to come live in the pool cabana?”
“I thought it was so you could heave yourself at Paul.”
“Only partly. My larger task is to dislodge Lacey from his ridiculously small bed. And who better to appeal to Lacey’s maternal materialism than my wealthy father?”
I was stunned. “Connie, you mean to say you’d break up your parents’ marriage to win Paul?”
“Certainly, Nick. Let’s face it: My father has reached that age when successful men turn into slobbering bimbo bait. He’s exhibiting all the symptoms. OK, if he’s destined to make a fool of himself with a younger woman, it might as well be with Lacey. Then, voila, I grab Paulo on the rebound.”
“But what about your mother?”
“My mother is a big girl, Nick. She can take care of herself. Believe me, you would not want to meet her lawyers in a dark alley.”
