by Dale Wiley
On top of the hotel, there was a pool. It wasn’t large or ostentatious, just like everything at the hotel. Its two cabanas were cheap to rent; at least cheap for anything at a nice hotel in that area of town, and Mick had a standing order: If he was in Los Angeles, he rented the large cabana, where he could lounge poolside, with drinks and food brought to him and a TV to keep the highlights running on Sportscenter while he half-napped and half-sorried himself. If you were going to be miserable, it was about as perfect a place as any.
Like most days, the smog had burned off and he was left with a perfect blue sky, the wisps of clouds left in the sky as insignificant as a teenager’s mustache. The temperature sat at seventy but with enough of the California night breeze left to promise that the sun wouldn’t dare get too hot. Mick didn’t care how many people moved to Los Angeles. That weather would own him forever.
The only two people he could stand to be around were there. Spider was there, known to the rest of the world as Curtis, but Spider to Mick. Spider was not a banker anymore, but had clearly transitioned into a fiercely loyal capo, one who stepped in like he had in Vegas, just in time, as always. He became friends with Mick in the days before Mick completed the deal that made him insanely rich. Spider had worked for another bank and was brought in by Mick’s people to help close the deal, and the two quickly discovered that they had equal taste for whiskey and women. At the time, like a backwards “before” and “after” picture, Spider (not yet his nickname) had been tall and thin, with thinning black hair and a $500 suit. He was handsome in a prep school kind of way that did not suit him. As his employment with Mick involved less banking and more drinking, Spider (still not called Spider) shaved his balding head and grew an outsized beard that was favored by women and noticed by the law. Spider finally let on to Mick about his rough upbringing and how he had tried to cover it up by practically pretending to be an Eton school boy. Now that he was done pretending, he muscled up and worked on a full tattoo sleeve that featured Japanese women and fanciful Alice in Wonderland-type characters. Mick had asked multiple times about the meaning, but Spider was always oblique. Mick liked that. The large spiderweb in the midst of all the intricate detail gave Mick the idea for the nickname, and Spider didn’t shy away. It suited the new him just fine.
The other “allowed” companion was Angie Palardi, Mick’s friend, confidant and occasional bedmate. Mick knew that Angie wanted more than he was giving her, but he couldn’t come close to managing anything else. This was an excuse and a copout, and Mick was a big enough boy to say so, but Mick insisted that was all he had, and he couldn’t help that she put up with it. He wouldn’t have.
Angie wasn’t tall or short. She was fit and shapely and dark-complected and looked like the female lead in an 80s teen movie, even though she was thirty-one. Her natural dark color and high cheekbones gave her a look that was forever youthful, always looking smart and hopeful. She met him at a party at Jack Black’s house six months before. She was smoking a bowl; he looked at her disapprovingly. She told him later that she found that very off-putting for someone with an obvious death wish. He liked her because she was the only woman who would talk back to him, but he shied away from anything but physical intimacy. He knew he would leave scars if he approached anything else.
Angie was facing her own issues. She had moved to California from Colorado, where something had obviously happened three years before. Even with as close as she had become with Mick, she had never given him the details, and still wasn’t that close to doing so. He had asked her once, after one too many rum and Cokes if he could go out to Denver and “take care” of whatever it was. He was assuming it had been some sort of rape or rape attempt, but she wouldn’t even be that specific. She pretended like she didn’t hear him, and distracted his drunk ass. She didn’t need anything else bad to happen on account of her. There was already enough of that. She knew she had been using pot to numb herself, (and partly to spur a little personal growth in Mick as well), and when she started her new job, she had given it up.
Angie had taken a job at a Montessori school in Brentwood. As of yet, she was not quite used to the level of touchy-feely that the Montessori school brought. There were too many mothers at the center talking about “feeling your energy” and about being “conscious” about every damn thing. That type of encounter drew multiple eye rolls from Angie. She was sarcastic and loud but painfully caring, a real, down-to-earth woman who had so very little in common with Mick’s “debutwat” girlfriends (Angie’s word). She gave Mick hell for wasting his life with them, and she deeply loved this man, but she knew how badly he was hurting. The only thing worse for her than not having Mick Lord right now was having Mick Lord, because in his current condition he was wired for nothing but heartache. For everyone involved.
Mick didn’t love living out of a suitcase. He had the money to buy or build, but that seemed permanent, seemed like a slap in Mandy’s face. Her memory still lingered, her touch was still vividly remembered. There was no other woman then. The world was hers. Now, he spent his days slightly drunk, lying down under a canopy at the pool, wondering when the ache would go away. The pool was never crowded, and often the three of them were the only ones there.
Every time he winced at the pain of his Vegas injuries, the picture of that silly signature would come back to him. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he finally called Charles Hanley, an acquaintance with Omega who had helped him close the deal. He didn’t want to go straight to the top, where it would take weeks of committee meetings just to begin to find out what he was talking about. He wanted someone on the floor and in the know. And Charles was as close to that guy as anyone he knew.
Charles took the call right away. Mick got to the point. “The other day, I was honest to God nearly killed. This kook comes up to be, hits me in the head and then is gonna pull out his piece if Spider’s not there to stop him.”
“Says I signed the papers to kick him out of their house. My name is clearly on there, but it’s not my signature, and it was at a time when we were not working Missouri.”
“What are you telling me all this for?” Charles asked, almost a little over-jovial.
“Just would like to meet with someone over there and talk about this. I don’t really want people forging my name.”
“Well, I get that,” Charles said, again with an overstated laugh. “Let me see what I can find out. I’ll find someone to talk to you.”
Mick nodded. He hoped it would be soon.
* * *
There were a few other regulars at the L’Ermitage pool - Mick’s favorite was the young escort, with brown, curly hair and tits like torpedos, who brought a strange assortment of timid men up there. She cooed and pranced and made over them in a way that Mick came to feel was part of a show, part of her routine to loosen up to do what needed to be done. She was one of those women who had clearly started at beautiful and worked her way down, each surgery bringing her back to earth. Mick had only known of her since he had been staying at the hotel, but anyone with eyes could spot the bad boob job, the collagen lips, and the tattooed eyebrows.
The men were either old or very large or with the military. She came with one companion at least three days a week, always about the same time. She was clearly spending a lot of the money these men were giving her on surgery, and that was a shame. Mick was fascinated by her, and probably looked at her too much when she was up here. She was the opposite of Mandy in so many ways, Mandy who was nature and beauty and light. He had seen her look at him, as if she were ready to leave her clientele and climb out of the pool and kiss him the moment he asked. He knew many of his new companions probably had more in common with her than with Mandy. That was more of the shame that now blackened his heart.
Mick didn't know her name, and Angie called her Trixie. Mick called her that, but more lovingly than Angie did, and sure enough, as if summoned by his thoughts alone, she emerged, bringing a knowing smile from Spider and an eye roll from Angie. Today’s guest loo
ked like Alfred the butler from Batman. He had a tuft of white hair that looked like it had been arranged, and a too-tan chest that was unfortunately on display. His mustache was pure 1965 playboy.
Trixie got in and sexed around in the water, like she always did. It wasn’t really sexy. It was forced and sad but it clearly made all the men she brought up there happy. It was almost like a set routine, and she always looked in Mick’s direction as if to apologize. After she did this, she told the men to come in the water. All of Trixie’s clientele told her they didn’t want to get in the water. All of them finally complied when Trixie was through with them. She didn’t take no for an answer. Mick was sure that somehow this made it easier to love on these unlovable men, every one of them who had the demeanor of a lamb but the eyes of a wolf.
Alfred was still unsure, touching his toes in the water. He hadn’t been swimming in years. He told her so. He didn’t like anyone, not even Trixie, telling him what to do. He scowled at the situation, unused to anyone bossing him around. He didn’t want to admit what everyone on the roof already knew, that he was paying for Trixie’s company, but he looked like he wanted to scream at her to get down to their room and get down to business. Trixie was going through the routine when Mick took off his t-shirt and dove into the water, swimming underneath the length of the pool and popping up right by Trixie.
He emerged from the shockingly cold pool and shook the water from his hair. Trixie looked astonished and happy. Alfred looked stricken. Mick didn’t even want to look at Spider and Angie to see what they were thinking. He put his arm on the other side of Trixie’s waist and pulled her close to him, hip to hip. She glanced at Alfred, but didn't’ pull away.
He brushed the hair away from her ear and whispered, “How much is he paying you?”
She frowned with one side of her mouth, and studied Mick’s incredible shiner from the Vegas trip. She reached up and touched it in a way that Angie clearly didn’t like. She looked back at Alfred. He didn’t like it so much that he decided the water wasn’t so bad and had jumped in and was trying his best to walk toward them.
“Five,” she said.
“I’ll give you ten if you’ll make him leave right now and come join us.”
He stepped back and look at her. She was stunned.
Alfred was halfway across the pool, moving like someone stuck in concrete. Everyone knew he didn’t have any swim left in him, so he struggled his way across. He looked even more feeble than he had on land.
“Okay,” she said, not having to think long. She walked over to Alfred and put her arm around him. They headed back to the other end of the pool while Mick swam, grinning back towards his friends.
“What. Did. You. Just. Do?” Angie asked, apoplectic.
“Ah nothin. We’ll see.” He grinned the most honest grin she had seen in weeks.
Trixie left the pool area with an increasingly frustrated Alfred. He toweled off and grabbed his glass, turning to glare first at Trixie, then at Mick. He put his hands on his hips and moved under the trellis, back in the direction of the hotel rooms. Trixie went with him, trying to smooth things over.
“Slummin’ today, my friend? Can I interest you in, oh, maybe the last seven women you’ve dated, all of whom could be on a Playboy cover and all live within fifteen miles?” Spider was as surprised as Angie at this turn of events.
Mick just smiled and watched the area where they had just left.
“If you as much as kiss her, you’re never touching me again,” Angie seethed.
Mick laughed. “I’m not gonna screw her, dear Angie. I’m just gonna give her some money and send her on her way.”
Angie glared at Mick. “Why don’t you give me some money! I’m the one trying to do things honestly!”
That was awkward, Mick thought. He hadn’t really thought about that before. She might have a point. But he still had to do what he said he would for Trixie. Mick was going to do what he said he would to help her and deal with Angie later.
That’s when the crash came, followed quickly by a scream. It was the sound of surprise mixed with pain. It came from Trixie.
Mick lept up with Spider close behind him. Trixie came through the door, her hands to her face, blood gushing. Mick couldn’t tell where from, but it wasn’t good. He heard the ding of the elevator before Spider could reach the man.
Trixie was looking at him while Angie rushed to help her. Her look was a combination of horror and dismay. He could tell now that the blood was coming from a deep cut in her cheek. Her look said it all: What the hell had he done?
* * *
The three amigos, Mick, Spider and Angie, had less than a thimble-full of medical knowledge between them. In all these things, Mick deferred to Spider. He had been in more fights and therefore, Mick surmised, knew more about the medicine that needed to happen. But it was becoming apparent that despite her protests, they needed to call security and have her checked out by a real doctor, not Spider. She relaxed when Mick told her he would pay. Spider called the front desk, who said they would send someone up.
Trixie - who really went by Danielle - told them the story. The one Mick had called Alfred - whose name was actually Trevor Hanson - was furious that she would pull out of their plans. He called her every name in a very thick book, and threatened to ruin her reputation. That made Danielle laugh. She was an escort, not a debutante after all. He smashed his glass against the ground, and when she reached to try to help him pick up the pieces, he turned and raked the biggest piece of glass in her face. She hadn’t been prepared for this at all, so it cut her deep, through the meat of her right cheek. If she had only bent over slightly more, it would have gone through her eye.
Mick felt like a heel. He was trying to think about how much money to give her, and he didn’t want to do this in front of Angie. That had been a dick move all the way around, and he didn’t know how to handle it.
“Danielle, how about I take you to the hospital and then to file charges?” He asked. Angie stared acid in his direction.
Danielle glanced around. She was in pain, and she was wary. Angie wasn’t helping things, and Mick gave her a look that calmed her down. Then he looked back at Danielle.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll take my Ferrari.”
That did the trick, as it always did.
* * *
Mick decided not to make small talk. Danielle held a bloody towel to her face, and didn’t seem to have much to say anyway. They had given her some over-the-counter stuff for the pain at the hotel, but that wasn’t going to do much of anything. He was pretty sure that the next doctor would give her something much more substantial.
When they got to the hospital, Danielle looked surprised. “Why are you taking me to Cedars?”
“Because it’s close and I think it’s good.”
“This is a nice hospital. You don’t have to take me here.”
“Oh yes I do.You’re getting the good stuff. It was my being a dick that got us here.”
“You didn’t stab me,” she said, making the first hint of a laugh that she had heard.
“I put you in a vulnerable position, all the same.”
They went in, and Mick slipped the admissions nurse a couple hundred bucks to make sure that she wasn’t forgotten. There were two society mothers who seemed to recognize him and seemed to just as quickly disapprove of Danielle, wrapped in a towel and bleeding profusely. Danielle realized what the women were thinking and looked straight at the soon-to-be-gossips. “He didn’t do this to me,” she said. “He saved me from more.” The ladies looked confused. One had her cell phone out. Mick knew where this call was headed: TMZ. He didn’t need or want any of this. Not for this woman who didn’t deserve the paparazzi on a day like this.
The nurse had come for Danielle. Mick told her to go on back. He turned to the women. “How much?”
Both women looked up at the same time. Both feigned ignorance. Mick was peeved that he would have to have this conversation, but at least for once it wasn’t for
his privacy; it was for hers.
“I made a mistake that caused a man to do a bad thing to that woman. For her sake, I don’t want that all over the gossip rags. How much do I need to pay to make sure that doesn’t happen?”
He had a feeling that these women didn’t really need the money. They were married to plastic surgeons or restaurant owners. The kind of men who could afford to keep their wives close enough for comfort and long enough away for sanity.
“You don’t…” started one woman, and the other shook her head. He scrutinized them for a second, but believed he had neutralized them.
“Don’t punish her further for my mistake,” he said. He looked at them and hoped he had made an impression. They seemed to have taken their scolding.
Mick was still furious. He had tried to see if security would detain the man, but he couldn’t get a commitment from the press-averse hotel manager, and he couldn’t wait around with Danielle bleeding all over the place. He decided he would fight this battle later. He had mentioned it to Danielle when they stepped in to the car, and she seemed less than eager. “Guys like him eat girls like me for lunch,” she said. She seemed to be set in her ways, but he was determined to change her mind.
This man was going to pay.
Mick looked outside and saw his day getting worse. Two vans pulling up. One of those latte-licking, yoga-pants-wearing bitches had tipped the paparazzi off. He checked his watch. His plans would have to wait. He had to make this right.
