“That’s no need for borderline personality disorder. Especially, a fine young man like yourself. Save that type of behavior for your characters, Wilford.”
“Is that right, Doc?” William asked. “Certainly, a little stress can’t possibly lead you to render me a personality case.”
“Look at how you handle anger. How enhanced you allow your anger to become. Take the same regard with your impulse controls. Have you been having problems lately with your identity? What have you used as a defense mechanism lately?” William sat there, brooding, but Dr. Doherty was an impatient woman. “Well, come with an answer.”
“I do not tend to become defensive. I hide my anger and allow my positive qualities and characteristics to take over.” He mumbled. “I placate people that I am angry with until I explode.”
“You seem to be very bright and personable, aggressive, and probably very inventive with revenge. Revenge with a mask over it is your mechanism isn’t it, Wilford?”
“I adore revenge,” he told her, and smiled wickedly.
Her face remained stony. “Such an archaic defense mechanism, Wilford. It runs along the lines of splitting.”
She had lost him. He had studied psychology in college and barely recalled splitting. He asked her to refresh his memory.
“It’s the manner in which people pretend certain emotions are not a part of them. It’s split off from the person’s psyche, and just doesn’t coalesce into their existence. In a person who experiences this, they cannot tolerate the drama bottled up inside of them, which prompts them to hate the same person that they love.”
“You’re not describing me, Doc,” William said, and glared sinisterly at the doctor. “You’re describing my character, Justice Lorenzo,” he surmised, proudly.
“If the shoe fits,” she said, and finally smiled.
William thanked the psychologist, packed his things, and raced out of the nursing home. Suddenly, he had an appointment at the UCLA psychology department. Justice Lorenzo had just gone crazy, and he didn’t even know it.
EIGHTEEN
Rodeo Drive, the world renowned shopping tract featured a picturesque array of side to side structures that catered to the wealthy. Rodeo offered the latest trends directly from the Milan, Paris, and New York runways. Lundin and William were having lunch at The BLVD—a fabulous restaurant located inside the Beverly Wilshire Hotel—on the outdoor sidewalk patio. The patio was perfect to watch the animated behaviors of the big spenders. Clouds passed and blocked the sun. William used the daylight darkness to steal a kiss from his wife. They were overwhelmed with love, and were somehow on their own private island off the Philippine’s.
The waiter cleared their broccoli pasta salads and made room for their main courses.
“I’m grateful for you doing this,” William said.
“Anytime. It’s always good to get away from work. You needed help, and relaxation is always help.”
“I never needed that kind of help,” he said unconvincingly.
“Believe me, you did.”
“Moving along,” he said, unbothered by her suggesting that he was starving for attention.
“Yeah, let me move along to the ladies room,” she said, and stood. She grabbed her purse, and said, “I shall return,” and then blew him a kiss.
He caught the kiss and asked her not to take long.
This is the life, William thought. He was no longer the poor boy who struggled to withstand schoolyard ridicule for not wearing the latest designer duds. Now, William Fortune was privy to whatever he wanted, including that trip to the moon that he wanted. His life was less angry than when he lived on the East Coast. He was less hungry to get out of the ghetto. As a kid, he often had a glimpse of the future. He foresaw residing in the 90210 zip, thanks to Aaron Spelling, and now he lived in 90048, which was just as lavish. He was a mouse back East. He had scratched, gnawed and bit to get the cheese, while avoiding traps and obstacles. He left that part of him there. He had removed that mask. He was William Fortune.
The chair opposite him was occupied, and William paid no heed as he savored the balance of his thoughts. He turned and jokingly said, “It took you long enough,” as he sipped his champagne and vodka mix.
“I didn’t know that you missed me,” Justice said, and forced William to choke.
“Are you OK, sir?” A waiter passing by asked.
“He’s fine,” Justice said and patted William’s back.
“Get your goddamn hands off me,” he said to Justice. He told the waiter, “I am fine. Thanks for asking.” The waiter looked at him puzzled and walked away. William said, “I won’t dare entertain you here. My wife is in the ladies room. I’ll need you gon’ before you blow my cover.”
“Your cover? Is it not like our cover, which is quite warm and comfy. Wouldn’t you agree, William? You’re speechless, I know. Don’t blame you. And our cover can remain the same if you’ve started what I asked you to.”
“I did. Now leave.”
“You have a habit of trying to kick me out of public places. Some gall after all I have done for you.”
“You’re a criminal. A loser. In fact, a has-been. I’m the real writer—”
“Here she comes,” William said. “Be gone before she arrives,” he said, and got up and left Justice there. He walked up to Lundin to obstruct her view of the table. “Have to use the little boy’s room,” he joked. “Be right back.” He dashed to the lavatory and prayed that Justice left the table. If he wasn’t gone, he planned to pretend that he did not know him.
William stared into the large mirror and splashed water on his face. He could not believe Justice’s nerve. What is his motive? What does he want? Justice’s freedom hinged on his clandestine movements, and avoiding William at all cause. If the police ever peered deeply into William’s novels they would have seen a pattern, and it would have netted them Justice Lorenzo.
William returned back to the table as the food arrived. Justice watched William and Lundin as he stood on the opposite sidewalk pretending to read a local map, just a tourist out for the day. Lundin read the expression on her husband’s face, and noted his frustration. She attributed it to him facing the sun, but wondered what bothered him. She also wondered why he stared into space; the same space. She turned and looked across the street, and William lowered his head.
He began to craft a reason for her asking, “Why do you keep staring at that man?” He looked up relieved to find Justice’s fedora fading down Wilshire Boulevard and out of sight.
NINETEEN
After a dinner and a massage with Lundin, William sat in his home office, and prepared to have some fun with Justice Lorenzo. The fictional one. He would exact revenge on the anxiety Justice cost him on paper.
Lundin came in and sat a plate of her famous chocolate chip, oatmeal, raisin, and coconut cookies in front of him. She added a latte, and then left to gossip with Shaunte and Margaret on the telephone.
William was in no real mood for a snack, but he was very eager to write. Dying to, in fact. He opened his laptop, ignoring his writing pad, and began to let the words flow:
Hopelessly, Justice let the bus pull out the station after asking the driver how long before the next bus arrived.
It was 10:50 p.m. and the next bus arrived just after midnight. What the hell was he to do for over an hour. He called everyone that he knew that could be of assistance. No one seemed to be able to help, as no one wanted to drive that far to pick up him and a fugitive. That was the life of Justice Lorenzo. Always on his own. When buried alive, he opened the sealed coffin and swam through six feet of dirt to the top.
Justice did not think that it was wise to linger at the bus stop. Certainly, the police would look for Amir there first. He brewed a plan and could not wait to see it percolate into java. He called Amir’s phone and was sent directly to voicemail. So, he walked over to the supermarket elated that it stayed open until midnight.
He grabbed a shopping cart and perused the aisles throwing non-perishable items into
the cart. Just a young, Black man out doing late night shopping. He shopped for a plan to get the hell out of Woodbridge. Thirty minutes passed, and in the cereal aisle, his cell phone hollered, “Wait till you see my dick.” He felt the heat from an elderly couple that was in disbelief.
“Dick is my friend, Richard,” he said with a curt smile and raced out of the market. “Amir, where the fuck are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“That was my girl.”
“Man, you’re drawing with that. I am coming to get you.”
“I moved from the swamp, and am right behind Marshall’s.”
“Okay, I’ll walk over there along the driveway in the back of the stores that separates the woods. Be able to see me, and come out when I am in your view. The bus comes in ‘bout thirty minutes and there’s no time to bullshit, we have to run back two miles.”
“What about the police?” Amir asked, hoping that Justice was not setting him up for an arrest.
“I’m guessing shift changed at ten or eleven for the police and Walmart closed at ten. Just be ready!” Justice barked and hung up.
Justice walked to the main highway, and along the shoulder. He was headed to a light to cross to the other side when he saw a portion of the gate missing. Perfect! He strategically timed the traffic and then crossed to the other side. He hoped that he was not arrested for jaywalking in Smallville. He jogged back in the direction of the stores and called Amir and told him to be ready, because he crossed the Marshall’s parking lot.
When he reached the driveway, he saw Amir. He was mangled. Weeds in his hair. Clothes mud laced. Tennis shoes that were black, were brown. There was no real time to assess all the damage. The two of them raced to the bus station.
The inside of the station had closed, so they had to purchase tickets from the machines outside. That meant that they could not bargain for a free ticket from the teller.
Amir hid behind the ticket machine. Great cover from being seen by a passerby and policeman from the main road. However, they did not have enough money for two fares. Justice was frustrated. Not a human was in sight. Shit! Shit! Shit! He wanted to scream. Then he had a glimpse of hope.
He looked at his watch. Ten minutes left. What if the bus arrived early? Pay it no mind. He had to try his luck. That was all he had, he thought as he jetted off to the 7-11 store.
Justice planned to ask the clerk for three-bucks to get the bus home. It was a long shot but worth a try. He turned into the parking lot and saw a Black man in his early twenties. He told the man that he had an argument with his girlfriend and that the police were called and he was escorted out of the home.
“Problem is,” Justice began to lie. “I didn’t put on my jeans with my money in the pocket and she told them that I didn’t have any money there or clothes, so I am stuck. I need to get back to NY, so I need five-dollars for the bus.”
# # #
During the ride to New York, Amir consistently tried to explain himself and hoped that Justice understood. He didn’t. Justice had a low tolerance for failure, and he was very critical and analytical. There was not anything that Amir could say to diffuse the anger that Justice had built up. With no other avenues to get him off Justice’s Shit List Lane, he sat back, and rode in silence.
Justice worked the phone. He had to continue to work to get them home, while Amir sat there. It was nice. Justice got Nick on the line and told him to use his personal credit card to order two Greyhound tickets for them to get home. He also told him to Western Union him $1,000 of the money in his glove compartment.
The bus pulled into the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal, and the two of them stepped off the bus. They snaked through the corridors and up the stairs to the 24-hour ticket counter. Justice obtained the tickets and then headed out to the corner of W 42nd and 8th Avenue. They found a 24-hour Western Union location, grabbed the $1,000 and headed back to the bus terminal. The bus boarded at 1:35 a.m. and headed back to Philadelphia.
When it came time for the bus to load passengers, Justice handed Amir his ticket. Amir entered the line, and Justice hung back. Amir looked over his shoulder at Justice. Come the hell on. Why are you standing there?
“You’re coming, right?”
“Not right now. I need to clear my head. Think a little. You go home.”
“What! You’re acting real weird. I am not getting on that bus without you. You high?”
“Suit ya self,” Justice said and headed up the stairs toward the exit.
Amir stood there stumped for a second. He had no idea what to do. He could not leave Justice in New York with so much on his mind. He ran behind him.
“Justice. Justice.”
Justice ignored him.
“Justice!” he said, forcefully.
“What! Damn! Leave me the fuck alone. I can’t be near you or anyone right now. I do not have shit. Nobody! My family gave up on me as hopeless years ago. The girlfriend I loved left me years ago. I’m in this fuckin’ world alone. Nobody wants me, but the damn Secret Service.”
“You got me. What the fuck you talking about? I ain’t leaving you, so you can book that idea, homey. We started this shit together, and that’s how it ends.”
Justice stopped walking up 8th Avenue. He faced Amir, and said, “Save yourself. I’m poison. You’re on state parole, don’t fuck up now by running behind me, dawg.”
“Listen, dick head. You have to be crazy or stupid if you think that the Woodbridge police will not find that I am on parole. If you think that I want to report to my PO and be kept, you are also crazy or stupid. You have a measly $1,000 and no check book or ID, ‘cause you threw it under a car, remember?”
“So?”
“Listen, man. There’s one thing that I know. That grand won’t do anything for you. I say that we go to your favorite hotel. Have Alimu-Shine ship your computer to the hotel, and we go to work like you told me you did when we were locked in that cell. We can relocate and get new identities and live happily ever after.”
“That shit sounds good verbally, but it will never work.”
Amir whistled for a taxi. “We are going to find out. Get in!”
Justice stood at the curb, and ignored Amir.
“Don’t be stubborn, man. Get the fuck in this taxi!”
Reluctantly, Justice got in.
“The Plaza,” Amir told the driver gleefully.
TWENTY
Monday morning, William dragged himself out of bed. He barely slept the night before. He was haunted by Justice. It was a continual nightmare, too. The kind that no matter how many times he awoke the dream continued like he pressed pause. Sometimes nightmares were beneficial to the writer, and he had a pad by the bed for those moments. How else could Dean Koontz and Stephen King become inspired?
He showered and dressed long after Lundin had left and then drove over to Borders and sat in the café. He read and made revisions on his manuscript. He prepared a story map to get him to the end of the story.
William re-read the dialogue and liked how the two men exchanged true emotions, which was rare, so he would let that stand, although it was passive. He wanted to make a statement. He pulled out index cards. On top of a card, he wrote the word “chapter” and began to jot down thoughts of ideas that he wanted to include in the manuscript. Later he would turn the cards into a page turner.
His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. It was Jewel, and he answered. Hell, she paid the bill.
“Wheel of Fortune, how the hell are ya?”
“I’ve been spinning this wheel trying to land on a trip to Europe for a month. Can you help there?”
“Hey, bring me back a novel, and you got it,” she replied and seemed serious. “I was calling to thank you for the flowers. It was a nice gesture. Made me the envy of the office.”
William was flummoxed. He had not sent her flowers, and he confessed that.
“Cut the shit, William. They came at the most perfect moment. Thanks.”
William had no idea
what she talked about. He played it cool, and asked, “Why was it the perfect moment.”
“I have another producer begging me for a Law & Order spec script. When I received the flowers, I was reading the E-mail.”
He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who sent her flowers. “Jewel, I am writing a novel for adaptation. Have you forgot? And what was signed on the note attached to the flowers?”
“Will, come on. Stop that game.”
“I’m serious, Jewel.”
“The card was signed, Will of Fortune. Your name was spelled like the name, not wheel as you and I do it.”
“I did not send it.”
“OK, Will you did not send them,” she said, and switched topics. “I was thinking that during your spare time, you could produce a few identity theft spec scripts for Law and Order.”
“I don’t know, Jewel.”
“Come on, the longest running franchise. Hell, you may spark a spinoff of identity theft segments.”
“Charming, but I will lose personal time with Lundin. I don’t want to be the writer like the cop that puts in so many hours the wife cheats or leaves.”
“Just think about it. I’ll check back in a week,” she said. “Oh, and the few chapters that you re-wrote on Justice, I am loving the Woodbridge, New Jersey dramatic tensions.”
“Thanks,” he said and hung up. He was done with that conversation, and wasn’t writing for Law and Order.
TWENTY-ONE
Lundin waited for Margaret to come down from her apartment, so they could shop at the exquisite emporiums on their tract. Lundin stood on the pavement in front of the bakery below Margaret’s apartment. Living on the expensive street was a beautiful thing for Lundin, but Robertson became magical when Margaret took an apartment on the same street. Lundin had longed for true girlfriends and she had found two. Lundin looked and finally saw the vixen, Margaret Goode.
CON TEST: Double Life (A Mystery) Page 8
