Jackson dug through the stranger’s wallet, found a twenty and took the C-note back from the clerk. He collected his newspaper, two unfancy Grampa coffees, and a box of donuts. He got back in his car, headed to the nursing home, and the entire event went unremarked.
At a long stoplight he flipped through the wallet to find out whose it was, maybe get it back to them. Ed Bloodworth, the guy in the driver’s license photo, looked surprisingly decent. And young, especially for his Melrose address. Probably worked in the industry. Had a nice face—broad and high-cheekboned, big blue eyes against pale skin, and a red wave of hair. And this was a license photo. Whose license photo looked that good?
Jackson had pulled into the convenience store lot just as the young man exited his souped-up 1969 Mustang. Primer grey, but the engine purred. The kid made the mistake of parking his muscle car in front of the store but out of the light. So he didn’t see the guy in the dark alley along the side of the building. The guy who pointed a gun at him and dragged him into the darkness.
On whatever death-wish whim, Jackson followed, found a second robber back there, a thin wiry shadow. The shadow cackled profanity-riddled insults at the Mustang kid, who lay on the ground, silent, taking a beating.
“Police!” Jackson bellowed, flashing open his wallet in the hope of maybe faking himself some clout.
Wiry cursed and fled.
“Pinche puto!” the gun-guy yelled after him, in an accent that told Jackson he was white. Then he turned to Jackson. “You’re no fucking cop!” He displayed a mouth full of teeth. “But since you’re here, pendejo, what you got? Huh? Hand it over!”
The gun gleamed and its owner came at Jackson like a late train. Jackson heard the injured man stir and whimper from behind the dumpster. A pitiful, distressing sound that awoke in Jackson a righteous bravery. Always help the helpless….
Everything slowed and made sense.
Jackson landed a solid foot to the gunman’s groin with one of his steel-toed engineer’s boots. The perp fell like a sack of manure, and the gun skittered away. Jackson caught sight of the victim limping off, a dark hunch against the blossoming daylight. He kicked the robber in the face, heard a groan. He stomped on one of his hands, then snatched the gun from the ground and turned it on the perp. “Consider your ticket punched,” he growled.
But he didn’t shoot. The robber was already knocked out and had pissed himself either from injury or out of fear. Jackson pointed the gun at him, curious if he could pull the trigger under the right circumstances. But these weren’t them. That awareness pulled him back to broader reality. He’d retrieved the Mustang kid’s wallet from the alley, taken a moment to not puke by the dumpster, then gone into the store as though nothing had happened.
Now he pulled into the nursing home parking lot nearly fifteen minutes late. The elevator seemed to take forever to rise and when the doors finally opened, Grampa Pedro wasn’t waiting. Just an empty lobby full of oppressive furniture and plastic flowers.
Jackson headed to his grandfather’s room, imagining the lecture he’d be subjected to this morning. Maybe the donuts would shield him. Yeah, they could be his excuse, they didn’t have the right ones at… halfway down the hall Jackson noticed something different; it seemed smaller somehow. The doors were all closed, that was it. So someone had died. And here came the nurse, her face a portrait of sympathy, so Jackson knew it was his someone.
“We’re so sorry…in his sleep…tried to phone you wish to see the body?”
See the body? Good lord, no!
“The body is a husk,” he mumbled, and got back on the elevator.
The elevator smelled like cigars and leather again—like the Perfumed Coyote Woman. The gun weighted Jackson’s pocket in a hauntingly familiar way. The sensation of its weight combined with that tantalizing scent to form a forceful elixir. It solidified his sense of completion. It washed away the creeping guilt of not being too mournful about losing Grampa Pedro.
Jackson left the nursing home feeling content and confident, like he finally fit into the world. And why not? Jared Ferryman didn’t have any living relatives.
IV: (Arrivals)
Rough Passage for Biiiiig Mac
Daddy (Part 2)
Mysterious Bastard
Now That You’ve Eaten
Your Own
CHAPTER 10
Geo’s week passed, uneventful. He filmed at the home of one of his housewives. Not as elaborate as the place Eddie had found, but with a pool and a giant dining room table, so he didn’t have to change the script much. At Survivanoia, he redid his sales reports and turned them in to the Baroness, who said nothing. He tended to find his way to the hallway when she was there, and often in the parking lot, but then ignored her in his practiced, aloof way. A couple of times he tailgated her to the 405/101 interchange. She always brake-checked him. And she always outdrove him.
Then, the following Wednesday, two strange things tossed his world back into a tailspin. First, coming out of the break room with his afternoon coffee, he was accosted by a man wearing a dress. Inarguably not just a remarkable ugly woman but a man—hairy-legged and stubbly-chinned and smelling of Old Spice aftershave—wearing a gauzy, fluttery, lavender and yellow dress.
The man stuck out a hand which Geo shook because it was his habit as a salesman to shake outstretched hands.
“I’m Melvina, I just started today,” a gravelly, self-assured voice told Geo. Well, Geo supposed, if you’re a man who’s going to wear a dress you’d better be damn sure of yourself. “I understand you’re my boss’s boss.”
“You work in sales, then?”
“Yup.”
“Oh. Welcome.”
And the man…man? Melvina…streaked off into the sales cube-farm.
Geo retreated to his office. The Baroness called as he reached for his tequila drawer. “You’ve got a new hire,” she said, and he could hear the grin in her voice. Then that grin faded. “And you’ve got a problem. Come see me.”
As he approached the Baroness’s closed door, he heard a man’s laughter and a slight Brooklyn accent. “Good. Then I’ll see you tonight.” The office door opened. A tall athletic man the color of a Bing cherry stepped from the inner darkness. Geo nearly choked.
“Geo!” Zane purred. “Good to see you, man. I’ve been meaning to contact you.” He winked and offered a hand, which Geo again shook automatically.
“I’ll call this week,” he heard himself saying, along with some other niceties that he supposed covered his astonishment.
The Baroness’s office was brighter than before, the drapes open farther. The Baroness leaned against her desk with her arms folded across her chest, smiling like she’d won money.
Geo sipped his coffee. “I’ve seen the new…ah—”
“Girl. Use she. Melvina.”
Geo blinked. “Okay.”
If his conceding surprised her, she didn’t let it show. “She’s mostly Miguel’s problem. She’s bright and I think she’ll do well. You and I have something more pressing to discuss.”
Like magic, a certificate appeared in her hand, flame orange and slightly larger than a dollar bill. She handed it to him. “Know what that is?”
“NOx credit?”
“Know where the rest of them are?”
Geo felt suddenly cold. Dad Voice said, “Why would I.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Geo took another sip of his coffee, gazed at the Baroness over the rim of his mug. “Why don’t you take this up with our environmental compliance officer.”
She leaned in close so he could smell her. “You know why.”
And Geo did. He remembered Eddie asking him about NOx credits over dinner, God, forever ago. Eddie, who’d been missing for two days after making a point to mention that Kate had called him again and did Geo care. “Not r
eally.”
“Hmm,” the Baroness purred. “Well. Figure it out.”
She dismissed him. Geo trekked back to his office, poured his shot of tequila, and then in desperation called his stepmother.
“Zane is bluffing,” Maureen told him, blowing out smoke from what he knew was a Salem. He heard her mixing a drink, knew it was a gin and tonic made with Beefeater. He felt lucky; she was friendlier to him when she’d had a few.
“If he was gonna’ cop you to Sonny,” she said, “he’d’a done it first thing. Doin’ it now would raise more questions than it’s worth.” Her thick, inescapable Jersey accent explained Eddie’s, despite the logistics of his upbringing.
“Hey, have you seen Eddie?”
Maureen told Geo she hadn’t. “He showed up over the weekend in some tricked-out car, some muscle car like his daddy used to drive. Seemed happy. Haven’t seen him since.” A pause and the tinkle of ice cubes.
Geo was thinking that the muscle car was probably Kate’s, but didn’t want to waste time asking.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Maureen said of her son. “They say suicides get happy once they make their decision. Hey, I hear you might be losin’ your job.”
Geo’s face went all hot and prickly. What now! Did the Baroness know Eddie’s mother, too? What the fuck was going on!
He took a deep breath let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, what?” Maureen drew another hit off her Salem. “That big ad in LABW. Some hotshot lawyer is suing the ass off your company—class action, baby! Some medicine youse made and won’t sell.
You’re in sales, why won’t you sell it, Jorge?”
Geo cringed at the use of his true name. “I have no control over anything here. Listen! I’m worried about Zane.”
“Scared of him?”
“No.” Lie. “We’re in the same business. I don’t want him blacklisting me.”
Maureen smoked and drank audibly for a long moment, then conceded. “All right, kid. The Crew hasta’ do a job at Tattoo on Sunday. Zane’s usually there, so why’ont you go wid’em. He sees you wid’em he’ll know you talked to me for real.”
“Why didn’t he just call you?”
“Cuz he knows I’d tell him no.” She paused to sip her drink again. “Your Ma says she don’t want me doing no more penetration. And I respect that. Zane ever wants two old-lady dykes I can help him. Otherwise he’s SOL.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Make sure you go wit the Crew on Sunday, call Josie. Zane sees you with the Crew, he’ll leave you alone.” She paused, and Geo felt she was deciding something. “I’ll see if they can find Eddie for ya, too.”
“Yeah. Okay, good.”
“You’re welcome.”
Next he called Kate. He hadn’t spoken to her since she’d moved out nearly three weeks ago. Caller ID gives your callee an unfair advantage. Kate threw attitude at him before he even said hello. “What do you want?”
“This is how you answer the phone now?”
“I’m busy? And you’re bothering me?”
Her upspeak invoked his Dad Voice. “Why does my brother have your car.”
“I don’t know? But he’s had it since yesterday? And I haven’t seen him. He was supposed to bring it back so I could go to work?”
“Are you dating.”
“What do you care? You made it clear you’re not interested. Now you wanna’ call me and be mean for no reason?” She was crying again. Seemed like every time he talked to her, he made her cry which was never actually his intention.
Why had he asked her that anyway? What did he care? He didn’t have time for a girlfriend. He barely had time for a shower. “I have to go.”
* * *
Geo had at one time enjoyed being seen with the Crew—unofficially christened the Porno Mafia because they made a lot of unrefusable offers. Maureen didn’t appear on camera anymore, but she was a powerhouse in the business, and her Crew protected her investments.
The Crew made an entrance wherever they were assigned-easy, since the Crew comprised mostly fetish actresses. Josie, for instance, was so thin that when she turned sideways she disappeared, but she had tits the size of cantaloupes and was perpetually dressed in thigh-high boots and some kind of cat outfit. The outfit was equally slutty and dangerous; she’d stabbed out a guy’s eye with those boots
Geo’s Sunday at Tattoo, however, was not evocative in any way. Quite boring and vaguely embarrassing, actually. He’d at least been spotted by Zane, who remained seated, a calm presence amidst a storm of panic on the second floor. Seen, but not quite acknowledged by the porno legend, so that Geo still had no sense of completion, of safety. And still no sign of Eddie.
Monday night, before leaving work, Geo called Maureen again but she still hadn’t seen her son. She taunted him some more about the company’s being sued, “I mailed the ad to you.” (She had; it arrived the next day.) “Don’t sweat though, Kiddo. We can always get you work as a fluffer.”
From work, he drove straight over the hill, checking all the little specialty Hollywood bookshops he knew Eddie frequented. Back in the Valley, he sat outside Third Eye Books & Spells, sipped the Yerba Mate tea they sold in lieu of coffee, and watched the sun go down. He realized he was still in his work clothes. His stomach growled, but he hated eating dinner alone in public. Lunch alone made you a loner; dinner alone made you lonely.
Tuesday, he followed the same routine but haunted art galleries and pawnshops instead of bookstores. The only lead he got was from some surfer artist with a Viking name. The Viking asked if Eddie lived in Melrose, ‘cause some kid with a bloody name owed him money and the last address he had for the kid, someone else he knew was living there now. Geo left the storefront gallery more confused than when he’d entered. He broke down, went to I’ll Tell Ya’s lonely, and Attala was not fooled by his expensive suit: Geo got the fried chicken and apple pie.
Now it was Wednesday morning, 8:36, and Geo slumped across his desk as he seemed to do most mornings. He’d gotten enough sleep every night this week, hadn’t hit the tequila yet this morning—though the thought had crossed his mind. God, was he depressed? Was he turning into one of those people? For fuck’s sake!
He couldn’t keep his cast waiting any longer, had to get back to work. What was he thinking, wasting three days like—
His desk phone lit up and the ID told him it was his supervisor, Sydney Scalinescu. He often forgot that he had a supervisor, especially with the Baroness being so up in his business as of late. Geo supposed Scally was nice as bosses go; “nice” being the word Geo used when he couldn’t come up with anything bad.
“Geo, can you come see me in my office, please?”
Crissakes, what did he want? Geo felt in no shape to deal with bosses today; he might say something unrecoverable. “You mean right now? I’m swamped.”
“It’ll be quick.”
Now he hit the tequila. And felt much better. Maybe I should get myself on those Xanax, he thought. Use this depression thing to my advantage. Depression. Ridiculous!
He meandered partway down the hall, then thought of something, wandered back, and took Maureen’s envelope from his desk. Maybe he’d pick a fight. That sometimes made him feel better. He then made his way down the hall like a dawdling child.
In Scally’s office—institutional and bland, the opposite of the Baroness’s—he found a heavyset man sweating in a brown suit and clutching a wooden box. Both Brown Suit and Scally stared at the box and Geo felt somehow he was being made a fool.
“Geo, this is Mr. Sanchez. He’s got a new little gadget he calls the poten-cho-meter. It measures the pretentiousness of people within a variable radius.”
“Really.”
“Do we currently have LACMA, the L.A. Phil, Spagos, any of those places purchasing from us, or will these be cold calls?”
<
br /> What on earth was he talking about?
“I’m just trying to get a sense as to how long it will take to launch a product like this and develop a market for it.”
Geo shook his head, dumbfounded. “Why would a gallery want to know the…pretentiousness, is that even a word? Why would they want to know that about their patrons?”
“Are you seriously asking me this? Marketing! Blah blah and yadda….” That’s what Geo heard anyway, because his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He slid it out surreptitiously, glanced at the caller ID: Eddie!
Scally had stopped talking.
Geo rubbed his chin, hoping he looked thoughtful and interested. Hoping he could figure out what Scally wanted. “I’ll look into it, Scally, and get back to you.” He peeked at his phone again, seeing if Eddie had left a message.
“When?”
“When what?”
“When will you get back to me?”
“Soon,” Geo assured his boss. “And I want to talk to you about this as well.” He slapped the envelope on his boss’s desk, then left before Scally could ask him any more questions.
Eddie hadn’t left a message and Geo didn’t know what that meant. He noticed it was nearly eleven and opted for an early lunch. On the patio of MexiCali Fresh, mopping up the last of his salsa with the butt of his shrimp and lobster burrito, he decided not to go back to Survivanoia that day.
He called Eddie’s number but got shuttled to voicemail and hung up. He then called Colleen and sweet-talked her into getting the rest of the cast together. Small tits or not, the woman could start a party.
Just as his Jeep entered the 5 freeway, he caught site of a yellow Hummer in his rearview. It crossed his mind to check with the Baroness about Zane, if things were cool. But he admitted to himself that he didn’t have the guts. Then that admission pissed him off.
He kept his Jeep in the second lane, let her zip in front of him. She was on her phone but her eyes caught his and she shot him that same wicked, challenging grin.
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