Trotter held his left hand up, showing Grasser his remaining bruises, which now had streaks of yellow running through the purple. “I guess we’re even. Just get the fuck out of here, and leave Fontaine alone, or else her lawyers will see to it that both of your asses land in the slammer. Capiche?”
Grasser nodded yes one more time.
Chapter Twelve
“No more Mr. Nice Guy, No more Mr. Clean.
They say he’s sick. He’s obscene.”
Alice Cooper
After he pressed the call button at the electric doublewide gate, a friendly female voice said, “Please state your name and business.” The seven acre estate had an eight foot high wrought iron fence running along its perimeter with a security camera aimed at the front gate.
“My name is Jack Trottson, and I have a two o’clock appointment with Fontaine.” This fictitious name Trotter used was actually in the police files. Jack Trottson stood six foot four, weighed two sixty, and was arrested several times for narcotic trafficking. All the undercover detectives had a street identity in case they were ever checked out by some of the smarter, more powerful drug cartels. Modern technology made obtaining background information on anybody too easy. Previous drug arrests made them believable characters. Trotter had considered having an assault charge added to his file for the fun of it considering the end to his military service, but he hadn’t wanted to chance anyone digging that deep into his past. A few “no big deal” drug arrests were good enough.
“Drive to the front canopy, sir.” The double gates opened to a fig tree lined drive leading to Fontaine’s mansion. Everything about this place reeked of excess. The huge front lawn, professionally manicured, rivaled that of a country club fairway. Mulch had been meticulously placed around every tree and shrub. The drive made a circle in front of the huge, fieldstone English Tudor style mansion. In the center of the circle was a fifty-foot round stone pool, three feet high. Six Greek God statues were spaced evenly apart around the outer edge of the pool, all holding pitchers; the water flowed from their pitchers into the pool. The center of the pool had an elaborate lion’s head fountain, which shot a stream of water from the lion’s mouth twenty-five feet into the air.
Trotter pulled in beside the pink Ferrari, next to a Jaguar and a BMW. He used his own little spy camera and snapped pictures of the plates.
He rang the buzzer at the front door. Half a minute later, a young heavy set girl with short black hair and black rimmed glasses, wearing what looked like a Catholic school girl’s uniform, answered, “So, you’re Jack. Come on in. I’m Nancy, Fontaine’s secretary.”
This parlor is bigger than my whole apartment. A giant oriental rug filled the room, which also displayed large statues of Greek Gods. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the twelve-foot high ceiling. Trotter drove by these big fancy homes hundreds of times and often wondered what they looked like on the inside. He was impressed, but did not let on.
“Fontaine told me how you beat up Grasser. That took brass balls to take the bat away from him.” Nancy gestured for him to follow her. Trotter had his USMC Bulldog sweatshirt on. “My dad was a Marine; he retired about five years ago.”
“The Marine Corps is a good experience. Sometimes I wish I stayed in,” Trotter added to the conversation.
“It wasn’t good for me; I hated moving all the time.” Nancy replied as she led him to Fontaine’s office, and knocked on the huge, solid oak door.
“Come in,” Fontaine hollered.
“Fontaine, your two o’clock appointment, Jack Trottson, is here,” Nancy stuck her head in the room and told her employer.
“Well! Let him in.” Apparently, Fontaine was in one of her moods. She was sitting behind her enormous black walnut desk looking over some contracts. The singer hated touring, and she was trying to renege on the touring clause that her label’s attorneys had cleverly worded into her contract. Her obligation was to do four concerts a year, for the next four years, then two in the fifth year. With thirty-five million in her bank account and all the residual income from her record sales, Fontaine was ready to retire now, at twenty-three. She just wanted to take life easy and spend her fortune. Poster sales and her line of perfume also grossed six million dollars last year. Now, a clothing designer had also contacted her to start a Fontaine fashion label. Fontaine did not need to work anymore; her name alone was worth millions.
“Have a seat, Jack.” Fontaine pointed to one of three huge black leather and chrome chairs lined in front of her massive desk. “What’s with the camera? I already have a photographer; I’m hiring you as security. My personal bodyguard. Duh? Did you forget?”
This little rich bitch has not changed any. Keep your cool. Remember why you’re here. Trotter then spoke to her as if she was a child, “Fontaine, I know exactly why I am here, but on my way here, I spotted your friend, Grasser…in one of your trees…with this camera. He kindly gave this shiny new one to me.”
“What a big prick! Take the film out and let’s see what pictures he got this time.”
While Trotter unloaded the film, Fontaine opened the bottom desk drawer and rooted through the mess of staplers, scissors, papers, and other miscellaneous junk, until she found a magnifying glass.
Trotter stood up and stretched the film out on her desk. Fontaine adjusted the distance between her and the lens until the focus was correct, revealing the candid shots. “That mother- fuckin’ Blaze!”
She moved the lens to the next frame. “That no good bastard. Come around here and take a look at this bullshit.”
She sat the magnifier down and straightened the curled film for Trotter’s scrutiny. He stood beside her and the smell of her sweet lilac scented perfume filled his nostrils. That brought back a memory.
One frame showed two people sitting around a large glass patio table, next to the deep end of the pool. “That big son of a bitch is Blaze. I fired his black ass the day after I met you,” Fontaine told Trotter, “Whether you took the job or not. He was history.”
The next frame was a close up of a beautiful black woman bent over the table with a rolled up bill to her nose. “That’s Jenna. Apparently she and Blaze are back together again. She caught him more than once fucking around on her. She even has a kid by the no good bastard.”
Fontaine rolled the incriminating film up and stashed the evidence in her desk. “Looks like you saved my ass, again. Christ! You probably saved my whole fucking career this time. I take it you’re going to be on my payroll then…Jack?”
Trotter shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said…on a part time basis, at first. We’ll see how things work out.”
“Good. You already earned a bonus. Let’s go have a chat with Blaze. Shall we?”
Trotter followed Fontaine as she stormed through her lavishly decorated home, downstairs through the kitchen to the rear sliding glass doors. She smacked a button, and the doors opened to the gorgeous pool area. Blaze and his lady companion saw her charging toward them, with Trotter right behind.
Blaze, a huge black man with bright orange curly hair, had his T-shirt draped over the back of his chair. He was somewhat heavy, but he also had an extremely muscular build. He must’ve had a half-pound of gold chains around what little bit of neck he had. His head sat on top of heavily muscled shoulders, and his arms were even bigger than Trotter’s. He made a lasting first impression, and Trotter remembered seeing Blaze at Muscle Beach a few times. Blaze weighed in at three hundred and forty pounds, but he was benching three eighty. He was one strong sum bitch!
Blaze tried concealing the three hundred dollars worth of cocaine on the table by placing both of his large hands over the pile of powder. Fontaine marched up to the table, and wildly flipped it on to its side. The powdered coke, a razor blade, a bottle of water, car keys, and a rolled up hundred dollar bill flew into the Juncus effusus bushes. The coke settled on the green leaves, resembling insecticide dusting powder.
“You scheming piece of shit!” Fontaine shouted at Blaze, “You set m
e up, didn’t you? You bastard.”
Blaze responded, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you crazy woman.” He looked at Jenna. “You ready to roll, Jenna Baby?”
Fontaine’s voice rose in volume. “You know God damned well what the fuck I’m talking about, Blaze. Was it just a coincidence that the two of you are out here in broad daylight snorting that shit, and asshole Grasser is up that fucking tree…with his camera? You and Grasser planned this whole fucking thing to get back at me for firing your lazy ass, didn’t ya?”
Jenna’s eyes widened at Fontaine’s words.
The pissed off diva continued her barrage. “You know damned well the public would pay dearly to see the pictures of Jenna snorting flake at the Fontaine estate. Now wouldn’t they?” The little blonde was fuming.
Before he had a chance to answer, Jenna backhanded Blaze, hard, across his face. His shades flew from his face, sliding on the slate rock patio. She screamed at him, “You lying bastard. That’s why you got so lovey dovey all of a sudden ‘Oh, c’mon, Jenna Baby, let’s go over to Fontaine’s, we’ll catch a nice buzz and take a dip in the pool.’ You were using me…To take her down. Then you were probably going to try and take my son off me. You never told me she fired your stinking ass. You no good, ignorant Motherfucker. You fucking played me! My momma was right about you.”
Jenna, a tall, slender, and very exotic-looking woman, was class. Pure class. She wore her straightened hair up, exposing her lovely shoulders. Large round earrings accented her high cheekbones. The powder blue lacy see through blouse she wore revealed her D cup brassiere, and tantalizing cleavage. Adding to her beauty was a pair of cut off jean shorts with red high heels that made her shapely legs stand out.
Then Jenna stood up, and started striking the large man about his face and orange head with her fists, while Motherfucking him up one side and down the other. She was not about to stop, so Blaze finally stood up, grabbed her flailing arms, and abruptly sat her back down in her chair.
Blaze then pointed his finger in Fontaine’s face. “You’re insane, woman. Don’t you go pretending like you don’t put that shit up your nose. And just who the fuck is this?” Blaze pointed to Trotter. “Did you bring po-po to arrest me? Is that why you’re pretending to be…anti-drugs all a sudden? Yeah, that’s it…arrest the big black man with the cocaine.”
“He ain’t the police. He’s your replacement,” Fontaine said in a matter of fact tone.
Blaze started to laugh, then shook his head in disbelief, looked Trotter up and down, then he laughed very hard, louder. “This scrawny little white boy is my replacement? He ain’t shit! You’re the one who’s fucking high, Fontaine.”
Then he took the two steps that separated them and put his face right in Trotter’s face, in a deep threatening voice, he said, “You ain’t man enough to replace me…Boy!” Then he shoved Trotter. His intentions, of course, were to push Trotter into the pool. However, Trotter had anticipated this. He filled his lungs with air, and grabbed Blaze’s arm. Both of the muscle clad men splashed into the nine-foot deep crystal clear water and went completely under. Thousands of tiny bubbles rose to the wavy surface slapping at the sides of the pool.
Twenty seconds later, Blaze’s orange head popped up. He had Trotter in a headlock, under water. “I want to see you…explain to the po-po…why you have a dead man…in your pool… Fontaine!” He said, grunting and treading water, as Trotter struggled to break free of Blaze’s anaconda grip under the surface. Blaze kept squeezing. Tighter, and tighter. Larger bubbles surfaced now.
Trotter managed to get his right hand up to Blaze’s throat. He found the big man’s vulnerable windpipe, wrapped his large hand around it, and squeezed as hard as he could. His fingertips gouged deep into Blaze’s carotid arteries, stopping the blood flow to his brain.
Within seconds, Blaze felt light headed. He knew he would pass out, so he let Trotter out of the headlock and grabbed for his hand. Trotter used his arms and legs in one quick motion, propelled his upper body out the water, and took one deep inhale. Then using his momentum on the way back down, he put his hands on Blaze’s shoulders and pushed the bigger man under. Trotter was ready for him when he resurfaced. His hand was in the knuckle fist position he learned on the first day of MP school. As soon as Blaze broke the surface, the large knuckle on Trotter’s middle finger landed smack dead center in Blaze’s right eye, hard. He twisted his fist on impact for maximum damage. Blaze screamed out in pain and brought both hands up to cover his eye. Trotter then used his opened hands like a pair of cymbals, and smacked Blaze on both of his ears simultaneously; Blaze’s left eardrum popped from the sudden pressure build up, he screamed out again. Trotter’s left fist then landed on Blaze’s good eye.
Blaze accepted defeat, and hollered out, “Okay, Motherfucker, you win! You win. I quit.”
Trotter swam to the side and gracefully hoisted himself up and out of the pool. Fontaine handed him a towel, as Blaze clumsily climbed out. He stood there with one hand on his ear, and the other hand on his eye.
Jenna walked up to him. “You are one big pathetic piece of shit!” Then she kneed him in his balls. When the big man doubled over, she landed a vicious right punch to his temple, and pushed him back in the pool.
Jenna stood there, shaking her hand. “Good Lord! That fuckin’ hurt…but it also felt pretty God damned good.”
Trotter calmly told her, “Put ice on it. The swelling will go down.”
Blaze, using his legs only, managed to swim to the ladder in the shallow end. He climbed out, but just stood there. Jenna could not stomach the sight of her son’s father. She whipped him the bird. “Asshole!”
Jenna then addressed Fontaine, “I’m terribly sorry for this mess. I’d no idea what that bastard was up to. He never told me you fired him.” She gave Blaze the finger again.
“I don’t have a problem with you, Jenna, just him.” Fontaine explained.
Then, in a loud enough voice for her ex to hear. “That Jaguar belongs to me, now. That asshole can find his own way home.” Jenna picked the Jag’s keys from the greenery, along with the rolled up hundred dollar bill.
Jenna said goodbye to Fontaine, apologized once more and left.
Trotter looked at Fontaine. “Well, Boss, shall I show our uninvited guest out?”
“Please do. And make sure the gate hits his fat ass on the way out.”
“Capiche.” He then looked at Blaze and pointed to the exit.
Blaze walked past him, cautiously, keeping his good eye on the “Scrawny little white boy who ain’t shit.”
The same scrawny little white boy who just kicked the shit out of him, a feat no man had ever achieved before!
* * * *
Fontaine had the table set back in place when Trotter returned from escorting Blaze out the gate. She sat, waiting for him. “I thought for sure Blaze was going to drown you. I’ve seen that big bastard squash plenty of guys over the years, but then you go and do some fancy Ninja shit on his ass. That was way too cool. I fucking loved it. Blaze was okay when I first hired him, but then he wanted more and more money for less work. All he wanted to do anymore was get high. Sooner or later, he was going to cause me trouble in one-way or another. Can you believe what that son of a bitch had planned?”
“How did you know he was in cahoots with Grasser?” Trotter asked, as he took off his soaking wet sweatshirt and wrung it out.
“Simple. One, he never should have been on the grounds in the first place. Two, I make it very clear that any partying goes on inside. That’s my biggest rule in this house. And three, what better of a way is there where he could get even with me, and make a quick buck since he lost his income?”
“I imagine those tabloids would’ve paid plenty for those pictures.” He said while draping his bulldog shirt on a chair to dry. Then he sat down in a chair across the table from her.
“Those pictures never would’ve made it to the media. The bastard would’ve black mailed me. Probably for ten times
what those rags would’ve offered. He would’ve had my tit in a fucking wringer for Christ’s sakes.”
“Do you know if Blaze sells the shit, or if he’s just a user?”
“Why do you want to know that?” Fontaine asked him apprehensively with her eyebrow raised in obvious curiosity.
“Being a private investigator, I have a connection on the force that can make life miserable for Blaze. If he is selling…he’ll do more time than just for possession.”
“I’m quite certain he buys the stuff and then sells enough to recoup his money. He would always brag how he ‘got high for free.’ The rest would be his personal stash. When Blaze was feeling generous, or wanted to impress some cunt, he’d throw a few lines on the table. Those were always better than the shit I bought from him. He probably jumped all over what he sold.”
“I can almost guarantee you Blaze will not be causing you anymore problems in the future. I’m a firm believer in…what goes around…comes around.”
Fontaine stood. “I would love to see that fucker get his, but for now, I have legal papers to look at and phone calls to make. I’ll have Nancy bring you some dry clothes and throw your wet ones in the dryer. She also needs do to the paper work on you for payroll.”
Trotter grabbed his sweatshirt and rose from his chair. “She doesn’t have to do all that. Just give me some towels to put on my car seat. I’ll stop by tomorrow and do the paperwork. It’d be a good idea though if you have her call a locksmith to change the keypad code at the gate.”
“Smart thinking. I’ll have her call you for what time to be here tomorrow. And in three weeks, I have a concert in Dallas. I’m hoping you can make it,” she said, pulling three towels from a plastic storage bin and handed them to Trotter.
Born of Greed Page 15
