Born of Greed

by Baroni, J. T.

  Trotter hollered out his window at her tormentors, “You heard the lady. Let her get in her car.”

  Stretch hollered back, “Mind your own business, Ass Wipe.”

  That was all the invitation Trotter needed; he got out of his car, ran over, and got in Stretch’s face. “You just made it my business, Ass…Hole!” Then, the wannabe star basketball player, who had four inches over Trotter, took a swing at him. Trotter blocked the incoming fist with his left arm, and then his own right fist connected with a powerful uppercut, knocking the very tall loser on his ass.

  The blonde hollered at Trotter, “Get that camera!”

  The camera bug ran around the front of the van to the driver’s door, with Trotter in hot pursuit. He managed to open the door, but Trotter kicked it shut. The fat little weasel put his hands up in surrendering. Trotter gestured with his open hand. “Hand it over.”

  Chubby said, “C’mon man, this is a very expensive camera. I’m still making payments on the damned thing.”

  Then the blonde hollered, “Look out! He’s got a bat!” Stretch must have picked his ass up off the ground, and grabbed a bat through the passenger’s window.

  He came around the side of the van, holding the bat in position to swing. Trotter took a step backwards. The tall punk swung the bat at Trotter’s head. Trotter ducked, and the bat smacked the van with a loud whack, leaving a very noticeable dent in the mural’s setting sun. Trotter grabbed for the bat, but his attacker was fast and pulled the bat back into position again. He smiled at Trotter.

  The next swing came aimed at Trotter’s stomach. Trotter was aware he could not step back far enough to escape the long reach this lanky punk had, plus the bat added yet another three feet to Stretch’s range. He knew the bat was going to make contact. Painful contact. He stretched his arms far out in front of him, and opened his hands as wide as possible; his palms faced his attacker as he swung. Just as the bat hit Trotter’s opened hands, he wrapped his fingers around it. Then, using his arms like shock absorbers to slow the bat down, he allowed it to reach his gut without doing any major damage, such as broken ribs. Other than stinging the living shit out of his hands, he was not hurt.

  Trotter then jerked the bat out of his assailant’s hands, and thrust it hard into Stretch’s belly button. He doubled over and grabbed for the bat, but Trotter quickly pulled it back, just far enough to clear Stretch’s rib cage, then Trotter rammed it upwards, into the soft tissue under his chin, where his bottom jaw attached to his throat. Stretch resembled a marionette being jerked on a string from the way he held his throat with both hands, jumping up and down; and moving his head in every direction; trying to catch his breath. All the while, he made noises that mimicked a wounded cow.

  Now Trotter was the one holding the bat in position to belt a homer, and he headed toward the tall gasping idiot. When Stretch noticed Trotter approaching, his eyes widened, he shook his head no, and put one hand up, gesturing Trotter to stop. Trotter raised the bat higher and faked a charge at him. Stretch took off running; the best he could, anyhow.

  Trotter then turned his attention to the fat picture taker. Chubby started to go for the van door, but then realized that would be a big mistake on his part. Instead, he opted to do the smart thing. He took the camera from around his neck and offered it to Trotter by holding it by the strap at arm’s length. Trotter, still grasping the bat, walked toward him. When he was near enough, he took aim at the camera and swung. The nine hundred dollar Yashica exploded into a million pieces. Chubby, holding the leather strap, but with no more camera attached, had a sharp sliver of finely polished lens glass deeply embedded in his cheek. He grimaced as he pulled it out. Blood trickled from the puncture wound.

  Trotter smiled at him and said, “That must have been last year’s model. Consumer’s Report said they did fall apart rather easily.”

  Trotter then pointed to the thirty-five millimeter film lying on the ground, and barked, “I think that belongs to her. Get it for her. Now!” He raised the bat. “And make damned sure you don’t get any blood on it.”

  Chubby kept one eye on Trotter as he retrieved the film. He then handed the film to the blonde. She snatched it from him and said, “I hope you learned your lesson, you low life. Why don’t you just get a real job and leave me the fuck alone?”

  Then Trotter spoke, “You might want to find your friend and get his ass to the hospital. He’ll be better in about three months…that’s as long as his Jugular’s not ruptured.”

  The blonde spoke to Trotter after Chubby left to find his friend, “That was totally awesome, man. What do I owe you?”

  “How about a bag of ice from the store? And we’ll call it even.” He showed her his hands. The left one especially was black and blue, and swelling. His right hand was beet red. He flexed his fingers one by one to check for broken bones while she went for ice. They hurt like hell, but nothing felt broken.

  “A bag of ice, please,” she told the skinny, young Asian clerk, as she produced her credit card.

  “Ten dollar minimum purchase with credit card,” he told her.

  “But I only want a bag of ice, and I don’t carry cash.”

  “I no make rules. Ten dollar minimum purchase with credit card, so sorry,” he reiterated.

  “Fine, give me a God damned carton of Virginia Slims Menthol Lights, and a fucking bag of ice,” she told him in a disgusted tone.

  “You need me to call cops for fight?”

  “No, fight over.” The little blonde sarcastically imitated his accent, snatched up her cigarettes and the ten-pound bag of ice. She went outside and found Trotter sitting on the curb. He was shaking his hands lightly.

  Pointing to the ground between his feet, he said, “Drop it so the clumps break apart.”

  She did as he asked, then bent down and ripped the bag open. He put his hands into the ice, maneuvering the cubes until they surrounded his stinging hands. He let out a small moan of relief as the coldness numbed the pain. “Ahhh! That feels better already.”

  “I thought for sure Grasser was going to knock your head off with that bat.”

  Trotter looked at her with a scrunched up face. Baffled, he asked, “You know these two clowns?” Sitting this close, he noticed a beauty mark on her left cheek, about an inch away from her lower lip. Marilyn Monroe came to mind when he saw it.

  “Oh, yeah. They’re newbies in the paparazzi business. With that camera he had though, they could’ve sat across the street and got my picture. What assholes!”

  “Why would they want your picture?”

  “Those rag sheets pay good money for my picture. Especially when I look my worst.” Trotter looked at her with a bit more puzzlement etched on his face.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” Now it was her turn to have a distorted face of disbelief.

  Trotter replied, “No, I’ve never seen you before, except for maybe driving your car around town.” He shrugged his shoulders, and added, “I have no idea who you are.”

  She stood up in front of him, shook her long blonde hair so it fell down her back. “I am Fontaine. I’m a diva!” Spoken proudly with an overtone of snobbishness.

  “Sorry, never heard of you.” Then Trotter cupped both hands and scooped up a large handful of ice; he placed his elbows on his knees and held his hands at head level to ease the throbbing. He felt every beat of his heart pulsate through his hands.

  “How could you not have heard of me? I’m Fontaine. I’m a very famous singer, with the number one single on the charts right now. It’s called, ‘One Little Kiss.’ Duh! Do you live in a cave?”

  Fontaine might have resembled Christine; but in looks only. Trotter was experienced in reading people; and he read this little snob like an open book. He quickly pegged this little rich bitch as spoiled fucking rotten, and very stuck on herself.

  “I guess I’m not into today’s music. I’m more of a Bob Seger kind of guy; you know…just give me that old time rock and roll,” Trotter explained to the little snot.
/>   “Who in the fuck is Bob Seger?” she asked arrogantly, while shrugging her shoulders and lighting a Virginia Slim.

  “He’s a guitar player who lives with me in my cave. Oh, and he told me he never heard of you, either!” Trotter said in an agitated voice, as the ice melted in his hands and dripped onto the bag of cubes. The throbbing began to ease up from the cold.

  Fontaine was not used to people being curt with her. Most of the people she knew, or met, would kowtow to her. Especially her entourage; half of those free loaders would kiss her ass on Main Street during lunchtime, if she told them to do so. This guy never heard of her, and then he was not even the least bit impressed with who she was, even after she told him.

  His attitude pissed her off at first, but then she thought that maybe she should be grateful for what he did for her tonight. He did keep her face off the grocery store scandal sheets, and he almost got his hands broken doing so. Furthermore, he was a damned good-looking stud who could kick ass. Besides, she was tired of her current bodyguard, Blaze. She was hovering on the verge of firing him along with his lazy bullshit attitude.

  “Touché! I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Grasser and his fat friend just have me so pissed off right now, ya know. I can’t even buy smokes without those jerks trying to snap my picture. I’m glad you showed up when you did.” Fontaine apologized, and flicked her butt.

  She continued, “How would you like to be on my payroll? As my bodyguard.”

  “No thanks, I already have a job.” Trotter was definitely intrigued, though. He learned a long time ago not to act overly anxious when you want something.

  “What do you do? I’ll double your pay.”

  “I’m a private eye. My pay varies depending on who my client is. But I average close to fifty G’s a year.” Trotter was surprised how easy that line of bullshit flowed from his mouth.

  “I can double that easy. C’mon, what do you say, Mister…Uh, I don’t even know what your name is?”

  “Well, maybe on a part time basis at first. I have prior commitments that will take some time to wrap up. My name is Jack.”

  “Great, Jack, let me get you my card.” Trotter watched that cute little ass wiggle to her Ferrari.

  He dropped the handful of ice, stood up, and wiped his wet hands on his sweat pants. She handed him her card. “Call me when you get a chance.”

  “Give me a week or so for my hands to heal.”

  “I see you’re broke down. Need a ride?”

  “It was just running hot. She should be cooled down by now. Thanks anyways.”

  When Fontaine first made the job offer to Trotter, the old cliché, “Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll” went through his mind.

  He could have cared less about the sex. Moreover, he hated her style of music…but the bottom line was…was he not a narc, after all?

  * * * *

  Never in a million years, would Trotter have ever imagined how the next few years would play out when he woke the next morning. All because two assholes with an expensive camera wanted a few pictures of that snobby blonde!

  Trotter’s left hand was very black and blue the next morning, but his right hand was not as red as last night. After breakfast, he soaked his left hand first in ice for twenty minutes to reduce the swelling, before switching to hot water for twenty minutes to increase the blood flow. Trotter did this for the next two hours while flipping through the channels on his TV. An old rerun of MASH held his attention for a half an hour, but then Gilligan’s Island came on, which he did not care for, so he surfed the channels again.

  When he heard the announcer on MTV say, “Coming up, our next video is Fontaine singing her number one hit, ‘One Little Kiss.’ He sat the remote down on the coffee table, and put his feet up.

  The song started out with a synthesizer and drums. Although pop was not Trotter’s style of music, he thought this tune did have a somewhat catchy beat. The camera zoomed in on Fontaine as she started the song. The breeze from a nearby hidden fan blew her long blonde locks.

  “Listen up…Ya hear me, boy…I said…Listen up! She whispered the intro in a very seductive, sexy voice while pointing individually to a couple of young boys close to the stage. Her other hand was placed strategically on her hip. She stood there in a dominant, yet sexy pose. As the drums and synthesizer reached their crescendo, she snatched the microphone from its stand and belted out the first verse

  “I always had this notion…that true love wasn’t real.

  And songs about devotion…Oh yeah. Right, big deal.

  I had one too many bad dates…He only sealed my case.

  Told that wannabe soul mate…Get out of my face!

  I simply hated that line…Your place or mine?”

  Fontaine definitely had stage presence. Her beauty, her hair flowing in the wind, and her youthful enthusiasm made her every young boy’s fantasy, their imaginary lover. Even her beauty mark added to her stunning looks. The tiny mark gave her the coveted glamour appeal, but that little tease dance upped the ante to pure sex appeal. She knew how to strut her stuff. The boys in the crowd were mesmerized. Her cute little ass was her best asset; she knew it, and she knew how to work it. In the tightest of skintight blue jeans, of course.

  She went into the chorus; Trotter remembered hearing that part the day at the red light when he first saw Fontaine blasting her stereo in the hot pink Ferrari.

  When the video was over, Trotter switched from hot water back to ice, sat back in his easy chair and wondered exactly what he was getting himself into with Fontaine’s offer to be her bodyguard. Rock and Rollers were notorious for drugs. The newspapers always ran stories on famous singers arrested for weed, cocaine, or heroin at the airport. Headlines reported so and so guitarist was in rehab, following a near fatal overdose; or some drummer under the influence wound up hospitalized after totaling his sports car. He convinced himself the money she was willing to pay was great, and he could infiltrate her inner circle and be in a fantastic position to bust some major bad guys. It was a win-win situation. He would line his pockets and afford the lifestyle he enjoyed so much and the state of California could put a few more low lives behind bars. Absolute win-win in his opinion.

  One week had passed since the bat wielding night at the Quick Fill parking lot. The hot and cold treatment he did every morning and evening did wonders for his hands. Half of the bruising had disappeared, and the swelling was all but gone. His right hand was now a hundred percent functional.

  At eleven in the morning, Trotter placed a call to the Fontaine residence. Her personal secretary Nancy set up an appointment for him to come over. He was to ring the buzzer at the front gate around two in the afternoon. Nancy warned him not to be late. Fontaine did not like to be kept waiting.

  At 1:45, Trotter was looking for her estate on San Vincente Boulevard, the ritziest area in all of Santa Monica. Numerous musicians and movie stars lived on this street. Most of the homes on San Vincente have a gorgeous view of the Pacific Ocean, or the Santa Monica Canyon. Very elegant and extremely expensive manors make up the most prestigious and desirable places to live in the Santa Monica area. Rarely does a property on San Vincente Boulevard hit the market. Moreover, if one does go up for sale, the place usually sells within a week, and at the asking price or more, if it gets multiple offers. Bidding wars were not uncommon, people with deep pockets didn’t put a price on the prestige that came with a San Vincente address.

  A familiar bright orange van with sunset murals had parked along the berm, a quarter mile from Fontaine’s estate. Trotter smiled as he drove slowly past and looked inside. Chubby never noticed the black Mustang driving by; he was behind the wheel, stretched across the seat and looking intently out the passenger side window. Trotter did not see Grasser inside the van, so he drove a little further down the road; his eyes scanned everywhere, but nothing looked unusual. He found the driveway to Fontaine’s, pulled in and off to the side. He got out of his car and looked all around. Again nothing. He decided to drive back and inter
rogate Chubby.

  Just as Trotter grabbed the door handle, a flash of sunlight caught his eye. It reflected off something bright, like a mirror or metal. Another flash, from up in a fig tree fifty yards away, halfway to the main house. Trotter focused a pair of tiny, but high-powered binoculars he kept under his passenger side car seat on Grasser. Wearing camouflage, Grasser was in the tree; and he had his camera zoomed in at Fontaine’s mansion. The sun reflected off the lens once again as he positioned the camera.

  Trotter stayed close to the wrought iron fence, and hurriedly snuck up to the tree. “Grasser! You asshole! Either you come down on your own, or I’m going to come up there and help you down.” For emphasis, Trotter began shaking the skinny tree.

  Once Grasser recognized who was down below, he immediately began his descent. When he reached the last limb, Trotter ordered, “Stop right there. Now hand over the camera before you get out of the tree.” Trotter was not taking any chances of Grasser hitting the ground and making a run for the van. The young man had legs like a giraffe, and Trotter figured Grasser could easily outrun him. He handed the camera to Trotter, and then jumped to the ground. Trotter hung the camera around his own neck, just in case he was going to need both hands against Grasser, again.

  Trotter then warned him, “If either one of you assholes is caught around here one more time, stalking charges will be brought against you. Do you understand?”

  Grasser nervously shook his head yes. Trotter continued, “And make sure your fat friend understands, too.” Again, Grasser nodded.

  Trotter looked at Grasser, smiled, and asked, “What’s the matter? Can’t you talk?” Grasser shook his head no, and lifted his head up, revealing a very black and blue, bruised throat. He had very noticeable stitches holding the skin together just below his Adam’s apple. Evidence of the life-saving incision performed at the ER, a tracheotomy had allowed him to breathe until the swelling in his throat finally subsided, three days after Trotter rammed the bat into his throat.