by Dale Wiley
“Maybe he’s just mourning his wife. She was much better than him,” everyone laughed at this incredibly funny joke, meant at his expense.
“I heard he’s really palling around with the wrong crowd now,” said Oil Head. They moved to paparazzi pictures of him at the hospital nights before. “I’ve heard rumors that he’s paying the hospital bills of some very… shall we say… interesting women.”
“And look at that shiner!” said the blonde. “Whatever he’s going to say tonight, I don’t think you can believe a word of it.”
They kept going at it, but Mick’s phone rang. He thought it would be Kinley, ready to eviscerate him, but instead it was MSNBC.
“I guess you’ve heard we’ve got a little lead over on our end,” said Candice, the only journalist in LA, it seemed to him.
“Seems like it.”
“I watched a little of the roasting of you over on Fox,” she said. “Anything to all of that?”
“I am sad,” he said. “That’s about it. I did help out a woman who had been maimed by a rich guy right in front of my face, but I haven’t slept with her.”
“Honey, I don’t care who you sleep with as long as they’re old enough to own a firearm in Alabama. Ain’t none of my business. But does any of this affect you going on TV?”
“I want to more now than ever. How about you?”
He prepared himself for a corporate entity moving away from controversy. What he got was refeshing:
“I’ll be there before and do a shot with you to calm your nerves.”
He wanted to hear more, but he heard the beep on his phone. This time it was Kinley.
“Sorry. I need to take this.”
“See you tonight,” she said with a resolve in her voice that he really liked.
* * *
Kinley was calmer than he expected.
“You’re making some news. Guess that didn’t warrant a mention while I was on the hood of your Ferrari.”
“I’m trying not to view the two as related. I owe it to those people to let them know I didn’t foreclose on them.”
“I thought we talked about all of this. You have to understand our position.”
“I do. And you have to understand mine.”
“I’ve really enjoyed the last couple days.”
“You don’t know how much I enjoyed them.”
“Well, I guess you’ve got a few hours. I really hope you change your mind.”
Mick was expecting more yelling and cajoling, so he was surprised when she let him go that easily. He simply told her he would talk to her later and hung up the call.
Maybe he was missing something.
* * *
Mick came in off the balcony. They were still watching the show. When the cable news cycle has a story, they never let go.
He turned the TV off.
“Let’s tape the other part,” Mick said, more excited than he’d been in months.
They had nominated Angie for camerawoman. She took her phone and put it in airplane mode so nothing would disturb her . Then she framed the shot and turned it over to Mick.
After a couple of aborted takes, Mick nailed it, like it was an episode of Self-Made.
“Mr. Hanson: You may know where I am right now, if you watch TV at all. I’m taping a live TV show about a fraud committed that used my name in its commission. I’m setting the record straight. I was going to do this anyway, but the pre-show publicity has given me even more reason to do it.
“You see, they’re making it out like I paid for our friend Danielle’s medical bills because I had done something wrong. Now we both know that’s not the case. But I shouldn’t have had to pay those bills. You owe Danielle those bills plus a whole big apology by my way of thinking.
“I’m not gonna comment on my thoughts about you, because at this moment, when I’m asking you for a favor, that seems a little counter-productive. So since I’m gonna be nice in that way, I’m hoping you’ll be nice too.
“So you have five minutes to make a decision: Are you going to do the right thing or not?
“What’s the right thing? Paying Danielle one million dollars. It should probably be more, but I figure a million is an impossible figure to her, and it’s an easy figure for you to do.
“Now, despite Spider’s size and taste for blood, we’re not going to hurt you if you say no. We’re not going to snap your legs or ruin your face or anything like that.
“What I AM going to do is name you on national TV and tell them why I had to pay those medical bills. I am not worried about any threats from you, because truth is a defense, and we have plenty of truth to go around here. And if you think I care about you suing me, I’m pretty sure mine’s bigger than yours, so to speak, so take your shot.
“But here’s what I’m also going to do. I have an assistant. She has a computer and a cell phone. And probably before I blab your name, she’s going to call each of your grandchildren and tell them about what you did, and whom you did it to. She’s going to post it to their social media accounts, because we’ve already friended all of them. And then we’re going to go viral with the cabana video of you and your idea of fun.
“I saw all those pictures of your grandkids, Mr. Hanson. Looks like you genuinely love them. I bet your love is genuine. I bet you look at them the way someone looks at Danielle.
“So there’s no ifs or buts. Write the check or they make the calls. We’re not asking for any legal ramifications, just some justice. It’s all perfectly legal. And I won’t utter a peep if you treat my friend Danielle right.
“Thanks so much! Enjoy your day!”
By the end, Mick’s eyes had gotten big, and he was enjoying this. Spider would arrive and put this in front of him after the broadcast had started. If Hanson refused to see him or didn’t comply, they would release the message. Mick was so beyond caring about ramifications. He was ready for some justice.
* * *
Mick was going to go back up and check on his guest when his phone rang again. It was a similar number to the one Candice had called him on earlier, so he decided to answer.
“Mr. Lord?” It was a man’s voice, young and eager.
“In the flesh.”
“I know we’re doing the final interview later tonight, but Ms. Mackenzie was wondering if we could shoot some parts of the interview closer to her, kind of introductory stuff. Maybe some B-roll too.”
“Sure. Come on out here.”
“Well, that’s the problem. She’s stuck downtown for most of the day. Could you come down here by any chance?”
Mick did the internal LA map/clock calculation.
“Where are you thinking? You know how torn up all the freeways are down there.”
“We’re going to be at The Standard. We thought that would make a good location.”
Mick liked both of the LA Standards. There was one in West Hollywood, and one downtown. The one downtown was clustered among the few tall buildings in the city. It was impressive and hip. Mick had been to the rooftop bar there, and being up there felt like you were in the middle of the sky. He couldn’t remember the number of floors, but he could remember thinking he was in Lando Calrissian’s Cloud City. It felt like something out of a movie. They projected movies on the buildings adjacent to it, and the pool glowed so beautifully it made you almost self-conscious getting in. It was one of the hippest places in town, and had been the whole time Mick had done business in LA.
“That’s what? Sixth and…”
“Flower. Will that work?”
“What the hell. I’ll head down there.” If nothing else, he could look at all the pretty girls.
* * *
Mick navigated the stop-and-start trip from Beverly Hills to downtown LA with some Fountains of Wayne. He put Welcome Interstate Managers and let it go. It had always been one of his favorite albums, and it was a good one for the nice day ahead of him. He felt good and focused, even with all the distractions around him. He shut off his iPhone just before the album w
as through, and was on his way to the room he had been told to go to, the Bigger Penthouse on the top floor.
He stopped half-way across the lobby, and walked back to the reception desk. He only had hundred-dollar bills. and wanted to break a couple in case he needed to tip.
“Hello,” he smiled at a pretty Scandinavian looking woman. “I need some change. Can you break these?”
He pushed three hundred dollar bills to her. The way she looked at him, he obviously had a fan.
“I’m happy to, Mr. Lord. How did you like your room?”
Mick frowned. “My room?”
“Yes. Your room. The Bigger Penthouse. The one the gentleman checked into for you.”
This wasn’t making sense.
“You mean for the TV station, right?”
“I don’t know the purpose. Just the room in your name.”
She slid the change back to him. He pulled out another hundred and gave it to her.
“Oh that. Sorry. I’m in a funk. Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you so much.” He smiled and headed back to the car.
He gave one of the twenties he had just acquired to the valet. “I know this is inconvenient, but could you please bring my car back around?”
* * *
In his meeting with Spencer Harris, one of the things that Harris had warned Mick about was the number of high-level bank employees and officers who had suddenly “decided” to commit suicide. The current count was at 48, and many of the occurrences seemed completely out of character for the people involved. ABN-Amro and JP Morgan had been hit very hard, but all of the big-level banks facing scrutiny had seen this very unusual trend. Many of the cases included suicide by jumping.
Mick had driven the Lexus, which was lucky, because he had the normal items he carried in the trunk: a 9mm pistol (correctly registered to him) and a hand-held taser. He thought about taking both, but he quickly realized that providing a gun might make the job easier instead of harder. He looked around to see who was looking, then pocketed the Taser C2 Platinum after checking it to make sure it was charged. He had never had to use it, but given the strange nature of this week, he thought it was better to be safe than sorry.
He called the line Candice had called him from earlier. She answered after three rings. He asked her if she had invited him to The Standard. For a moment, he could tell that she was trying to be coy, but she figured out he was serious.
“I did not. Do you want me to?”
“No. I want to figure out what the hell is going on. Please do one thing for me: Make a note that I was invited to The Standard and did not come here on my own. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.” He gave her Spider’s number, and told her to call him and tell him he was invited to the hotel.
“You realize you’re walking into a trap?”
“Indeed. And I’m looking forward to it.”
* * *
Mick rode the elevator to the top, then walked to the biggest suite in the place, the aptly-named Bigger Penthouse. He knew how to quickly get to the Taser but didn’t want to rest his hand on it for fear he would shoot himself. He knocked, and the door was opened by a thin bald man, maybe his age. His head glistened and told Mick he was proud of his appearance and ashamed of his thinning hairline. He wore a gray collared shirt and light brown slacks. He looked at ease.
The room was enormous. There was a large dining table and very modern furniture, plenty of windows and the appearance of vastness. This was hyper-modern. Mick could smell some sort of sandalwood concoction. It was stronger than he would have expscted.
“Come on in,” he said. “Candice will be back in a minute.”
Mick looked around. There was nothing that remotely resembled any type of TV setup. “Where are the cameras?”
“The cameraman is with her,” he shrugged. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
Mick politely declined. He wanted to use his taser now, but wouldn’t yet. He wanted to see where this went. He walked over to the window, to make sure his not sitting down was not as obvious.
Then, as he moved to the window, he wasn’t sure that was the right move.
“So tell me about you,” Mick said, turning to look back at the man. He noticed the smell again. It was getting more pronounced, a cloying, increasingly heavy smell. “Do you work for MSNBC?”
“I do,” he said, distracted. “Can you give me a minute?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and walked into the bathroom.
That smell was growing stronger, and now changed. The odor turned foul, and seemed to make him lightheaded.
Mick decided he couldn’t take much more of the odor. He covered his mouth with his shirt and put the taser in the other hand. He opened the door and saw the man with some sort of gas mask over his face. Behind the man stood another, bigger man, who was also wearing something to protect him from this noxious concoction. Mick had one taser and two targets. And no time left.
Both men took a step toward him and Mick had to think fast. He went for number one’s mask, ripping it off his face. The man dropped the board he had been carrying on the ground. Number two was right behind and bigger. Mick aimed and fired the taser and hit his mark. He held onto the trigger for a moment longer and slid the connection into the first man to give him a jolt. Then Mick dropped the taser and ran, listening to the strange sound it made as he ran away.
Mick waited as long as could before taking a breath. He was halfway to the front door when he gave in and had to breathe. He made it to the door and threw it open before he passed out flat on the floor. But it gave enough time for the security guards to assess some of what was happening.
The first guard didn’t get the message in time, and passed out. Luckily, he landed on top of Mick. The second man retreated a few steps and called for backup, suggesting there was some sort of airborne poison. The bald man had gotten his mask back on his face and pushed past the guard, taking the stairs and heading down.
* * *
If he hadn’t asked for change, he would be dead. That was still sinking in. The man could have simply asked him to come back and see if he could figure out what the strange smell was. Mick would have been on the floor, not dead, but highly intoxicated from the organic poison they had created, a mix of sandalwood and henbane. No one would think to check when someone as famously intoxicated and sad as Mick Lord, who had just had his entire world blasted all over TV, decided to throw himself off a tall and fashionable building. It was a brilliant thought.
By the time Spider arrived, Mick was regaining something approaching sanity, nursing a terrible headache. The doctor wanted to know how the bald man had gotten so close without passing out, but everyone surmised that he was long gone by now. The bigger man wasn’t so lucky. He had slipped and hit the back of his head against the bathtub, and, having thrown his mask off, had no chance. Either one was enough to probably kill him; together they had clearly done the trick.
Mick was in no condition to drive. He handed the keys to Spider. Spider asked him if he was sure after all of this. Mick turned to him and did his best Gloria Swanson. He flicked his hair, opened his eyes, and emoted: “All right, Mr. DeMille. I’m ready for my closeup.”
* * *
“I’m kind of roping you into this,” Mick said to Spider on their way back to Beverly Hills.
“I’m a big boy.”
“You don’t have to do any of this.”
“You’re right.”
“But you’re going to?”
“I think it sounds like the most fun I’ve had in a while. And it’s been the first thing that’s made you wake up in a long time.”
“It has done that.”
Mick could tell Spider was tired of talking. So he closed his eyes and tried to forget about the convergence of black clouds in his head.
* * *
Because of the mess of that day, Mick got permission to film the interview on the roof instead of in his room. He took a long nap that made him feel marginally better, and he felt mor
e tense than he thought he would. He was ready to tell his story, but what had happened that morning made his heart feel heavy. He needed to assume that Kinley knew of the plan, maybe even spearheaded it. He knew she had worked for a black-hearted entity, had known that she had to overlook many things daily to be able to stay working there, but he held out hope that she hadn’t gone that way herself. Now it was hard to imagine anything else.
An hour before they were supposed to go on the air, Mick quit moping and started to focus. He went over plans with Spider and Angie for Project Hanson. Angie had found out that she had a distant connection with a member of the Hanson entourage, and she was almost certain where the old man would be when they needed them. They painstakingly set Mick’s phone so it would vibrate when they sent him a message about the status of negotiations. It was agreed that Angie would wait outside in the car. Neither Mick nor Spider wanted anything bad to happen to her if something went wrong. After seeing what Mick had been through that day, Angie was galvanized and had committed to being involved in this… do-gooding? Wrong-righting? They needed a better name. She and Spider headed off for their location a few blocks away while Mick finished up with Spencer Harris.
“This is a big moment,” Spencer said, making sure he was being heard. They stood on the edge of the roof, overlooking the hills of Beverly, where Charles Manson had done his dirty work, and many magical works of art had been created. It seemed important to be doing what he was doing. Mick was happy about it.
“You’re a marked man from here on out,” he continued. “You saw that today. Once you get this out there, you’ll get a pass for a while, but they’ll be back. They can’t have this story told, not by consistent and credible people.”
“So I see,” said Mick.
They both decided he should play down the attack earlier that day, because so little was known about the people involved. Mick would stick to what he could say unquestionably.
He texted Spider and found out he and Angie were in place. He tested sound levels with the camera crew, and he sat down with Candice. He was tired. Despite makeup’s best attempts, you could still see the beating his face had taken over the week. But now that he thought about it, he welcomed this pain. It had given him a purpose.
