by Bud Connell
The process went on for what seemed like several hundred years and Emilio and Carlos stopped talking simultaneously. Emilio ripped the top sheet off the clipboard and smiled broadly, showing a prominent gold tooth.
“For you, señor, freend of my freend Ramon, a bar-gain.”
I snatched the paper and my eyes glazed. $18,367.94 and that was for the Bentley. An hour later they finished estimating the Cadillac and it was a shade under ten grand.
I told Emilio and Carlos to keep the cars and go to work. Someway I’d cover the bill. I just didn’t know how, but I was beginning to get an idea.
14 – Meathawk Over a Mouse
I called Fat Baby, the music director of the Miami rocker, to test the airplay water. He and Emeril Green, the program director, were gonna hold my head under and make me drown.
“Play that piece of crap? It’ll cost you triple.” That meant I’d have to go into the hole by multi-grand to score enough dope to get the CD on the station.
So, the upshot–I needed twenty-eight grand for the cars and at least another three for Ramon so he’d supply enough stuff for the Miami airplay and I could get my job with Kodi reinstated. It was not going to be easy. I put in a call and Ramon said he’d meet me at three on the usual corner.
+++
He hopped in the Toyota and I laid the beg on him.
“You’re crazy, Joe Oaks. Say it again slow, you want me to do what, crazy man?”
“Ramon, come on. Just let me owe you.”
“How much you got on you?”
“Uh––” I reached in my pocket and pulled out my wad. I counted off eleven C-notes. “I can’t give you all of it.”
“Give me a thousand. You can owe me the other two grand until this time next week. And I do mean, next week.”
What if I didn’t make it in a week? He’d kill me. “Give me a month, Ramon. If I save my job, I can keep buying. If I get terminated, you lose a customer for life.”
“Hey, if you don’t repay, you get terminated anyway, comprender?” I sat there, trying to get my head around the consequences of missing the deadline with Ramon watching me like a meathawk over a mouse. “Okay, three weeks. That’s it,” he said.
He hopped out, grinning and walking backwards and flashing the V-rabbit-ears with both hands, and leaving the goods in a snow-white envelope on the floorboard balanced up against the firewall. I looked at it a good long time before I pulled out into traffic.
A knot in my stomach, or more like a black hole bloated up into my consciousness.
So there I was. I had to come up with thirty big ones in three weeks, and most of it in seven days or less. Shit-house-mouse.
15 – A Tender New Bush
Sunday morning Katya was horny again, and that was okay with me. She’d let the maid off for the weekend and I was tired of sitting at the bar and having Tylerfrank ask me questions about her considerable talents. I noticed I had started to lie a lot anyway, because frankly, some of it wasn’t any of his business. He did get one helluva hoot out of the Naval Girl story with Howie Spins getting fired and all, but I didn’t find it all that funny. So as a recompense, he offered me more receipts.
“Here’s one for $206 and some change. How about that? And here’s a wad of good ones from last night. Marybella cleaned out her pockets.” If I weren’t so balled up with Katya and my pressing problems, I’d take a swing at that cute little brunette barmaid. Anyway, the extra receipts would help on expenses, but they wouldn’t go very far in filling in my big ass shortfall.
I ordered another double and thought about my predicament until my Kentucky medicine took effect. Then I stopped ruminating and decided to show up early at Katya’s penthouse. I brought a bottle of good wine and the love weed and few lines of foo-foo I’d been saving for a special occasion. With all Katya had been through with me on Friday, she deserved a good time. And it was almost Valentine’s Day, so I picked up a big red rose and a box of Godiva chocolates, and it cost me thirty-nine bucks. Am I romantic or what?
+++
“Oh, you sweet thing!” Katya was all over me like honey on a bear’s paw, and I gotta admit I was looking forward to our Sunday free of cares; especially after this week, which I’d just as soon forget ever happened. She pulled me toward the curvy couch and pushed me down on it, flopped down by my side and wrapped those pretty arms around my neck. I decided to let the action begin.
I leaned over on the ultra-modern white foo-foo sofa and hooked her around her waist and pulled her up closer to me.
“Oh, Joe! This is the nicest Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had.”
Well, that’s all I needed. I leaned to the side and she collapsed under me like a tender new bush in the forest.
“Don’t mash me, you’ll bust ‘em.”
“I know. I know.”
And the party began.
Katya let it all fly, and I was hoping the penthouse was soundproof. But I stopped thinking about all the noise and lost myself in the heat of the moment.
And Katya lost her accent.
“Oh, dammit, Joe, dammit, dammit, dammit. Don’t–stop–Joe! Oh, golly, Joe-baby, do it deeper, do it deeper!”
That’s when I began to suspicion she wasn’t from Poland. After the second act climax we took an intermission and lit a joint, and I had to ask.
“You’re not from Poland, are you?”
She took a beat and said softly, “Detroit.”
“Figures.”
“How’d you know?”
“When you get excited you lose your accent.”
She made dimples and looked down at her rack. “I know, I lose it when I’m hot.”
“How’d you learn to talk like that anyway?”
“An acting coach up in Hallandale.”
“Well, she did a good job for the most part.”
“He. It was a guy. I had to trade it out.”
“That figures.”
“He worked on me a lot,” she said.
“And vice-versa?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Glorious Katya looked out the window at the skyline. She was a piece of work alright, a good girl. It’s just her bricks weren’t laid all the way up to her roof.
“What’s your real name?”
“Katya!”
“I mean your real, real name.”
“Poo on you, Joe Oaks. It’s Catherine Lucille Bobo, and it’s a real, real name and don’t you make fun of it.”
I almost fell on the floor, but I held back from laughing. Poor kid. Anybody from Detroit with the last name Bobo should definitely have imagineered a new name and a new background, even a Polish one.
She sidled up to me and nudged my neck. “You know, Joe. Nobody ever treated me so nice as you.” That was sweet, and then she backed off, looked up at me and made dimples again. “I got a secret.”
I couldn’t imagine what it’d be. I just looked at her and raised my eyebrows.
She smiled and looked down, and brushed something imaginary off her rack. “I’m not really married. We just live together. I told him I wouldn’t do it unless I could act like the Mrs.”
Well, that little bit of news from my Detroit princess didn’t really surprise me, and it didn’t uncomplicate my life. “And he said okay?”
“Okay, he said, but only in Miami Beach. I don’t travel with him. I’m like the Miami Beach wife and that’s it.”
Poor kid. I didn’t know what to say.
“Aren’t you gonna say anything?”
“I’m thinkin’.”
“It kinda opens up the space for us, Joe, doesn’t it?”
I looked at Katya, oh hell, Catherine Lucille Bobo, and I smiled back. I had to think this one out. It’s like when somebody gives you an expensive pussycat that only eats caviar and you live in a downscale one-bedroom apartment and travel a lot. I mean there was no easy answer.
“Well, I’m going to open the wine while you do your thinking. Do you want a pizza? I’ve got some in the freezer.”
Then I heard a stove bell ding, and two minutes later Katya rolled in a cart with the pizza and a salad and the Merlot I brought. She was a good girl, and pretty handy in the kitchen.
We ate and drank and smoked another fatty down to zip and got into it again. She fired off more times than a row of howitzers and I was hotter than a dog with two dicks. I was falling in love. Oh crap, I don’t think I said that. Did I say that?
Anyway, in the heat of humpery, one of us accidentally kicks the ashtray off the coffee table and I guess Katya’s live one, one of her long brown cigarettes, rolled across the floor and into the bottom of a sheer drape. They should make that shit non-flammable. We were so busy burning up the sofa that we didn’t see what was going on behind us until the end of the room looked like a Texas bonfire before an Aggies game.
I leaped up and Katya started screaming. The drapes went up like a Christmas tree in February and set fire to everything near the windows.
“Where’s the phone? Where’s the phone?” I was screaming louder than she was. And she couldn’t find the cordless son-of-a-bitch, so there we are in the nude running around and bobbing up and down and screaming, and about to be barbecued.
After wiping all the stuff off the coffee table in a panic search, she jammed her hand between the cushions of the sofa and miraculously pulled out the phone and punched 911, and in all the confusion couldn’t remember her own address so I yanked it from her and took over. After barking out the right info, they wanted to know who was calling and I stupidly yelled out my name. Good grief, how dumb can I be.
The flames went to the ceiling and Katya went into full panic mode, and that’s when the sprinklers kicked on and wet down the entire room like a rain forest in June. Katya’s big hair became flat, drippy small hair and we looked like we’d been caught in a Manila monsoon.
It was about then the Fire Department crashed through the door followed by police and building security, and both of us still butt-ass naked and running around like hysterical natives on hot coals.
16 – My Smoky Little Princess
Two hours later, whatever hot spots the sprinkler system didn’t knock down, the firemen did, and the place was in shambles. The fire marshal performed the last task of the night, a detailed report and he kept sniffing the air and screwing up his face.
Katya was too upset to talk, so I took over and told him how it happened, leaving out, of course, all the juicy X-rated details. I hadn’t yet begun to think about the problem this little event was adding to my growing disaster list.
After the cops, firemen, security and super left, Katya plopped down on the squishy sofa and cried.
I had to take charge. I pulled her up by her perfect little hairless arms and held her close to me. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get all this cleaned up. I’ll take care of it.”
“He’ll know. I’ll have to call the insurance company. He’ll see the reports. He’ll kill me.”
“No, no he won’t. You won’t have to file a claim. I’ll get it cleaned up before he gets back. It’ll be like it never happened.” I hoped, and I’d need a Mother Mary-size miracle.
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I didn’t know how, but I would. “Call one of those fire damage clean-up companies first thing tomorrow and get an estimate. And I’m gonna put you up at the hotel tonight, in your own room.” It was the least I could do for my smoky little princess.
“You’re an angel, Joe.”
I smiled and sheepishly looked down at the soaked white carpet and the black boot tracks. God, I was beginning to like her too much.
But, I was no angel. I was a dumb son-of-a-bitch trying to save his ass from getting killed by Mr. Darragh Cahoone when he got back in town.
No telling what he’d do to poor Katya, alias Catherine Lucille Bobo of Detroit.
17 – In My Guru Sort of Way
I got Katya situated in a Plage mini-suite on my own dime, and she was beat like a rug. I told her to take a hot bath and go to bed.
Katya stripped her house key off her key chain, handed it to me, kissed me on the cheek and hugged me tight.
“You are such a doll, Joe, for taking care of me.”
I smiled to myself and patted her on her shapely bum-bum. “You take that hot bath now and get some sleep. Things will look a lot better tomorrow,” I said in my guru sort of way.
She dropped her little hairless arms, backed up and collapsed on the bed. I doubted she’d make it to the tub. I leaned over and stroked her hair for about a minute and she closed her eyes. I could hear her breathing softly, so I pulled the chain on the bedside lamp and Mr. Softy backed quietly out of the darkened room.
Time to lift the tail of the old donkey and look it right in the eye—time to face reality. I headed back to the condo. Tonight I’d get a head start on the cleanup so maybe the tab from the professionals wouldn’t hit me so hard.
I had squirreled away a few thousand for emergencies, and this was certainly an emergency of the highest order. The ol’ Joe Oaks commitment to what is good and right would come through once again.
18 – Looking at the Long, Long Green
Feeling the need for a little pick-me-up, I shuffled into the Cahoone kitchen and looked for coffee, found it and made myself a cup; and sipping it, moved around through the spacious palazzo surveying the damage, and snooping, as is my custom, into areas that were non of my frickin’ business.
The firemen had forced open Cahoone’s own locked den, or I’ll call it a library, since it was full of books and other depressing crap. I entered, careful not to spill coffee on Cahoone’s frickin’ Oriental rug, and I moved around behind his desk which was locked up tighter than an old maid’s douche bag. That’s when I saw it.
The fire guys had apparently kicked open a small panel-like door behind the desk into a crawl space that served no particular purpose, except that it was full of small cardboard boxes that looked just alike, and I thought they probably had to do with Cahoone’s business. Well, you know me and my curiosity. Katya said he was an importer, and I just had to see what it was that he imported.
I placed a box on the desk and carefully stripped the sealing tape off so I could put it back after I took a little look-see inside. Then I stood there like a concrete statue for about five minutes staring at the contents, my brain on full tilt.
I was looking at the long green. I mean the long, long green. Each box was about a foot long and almost a foot wide and six inches deep, and inside were eight stacks of new C-notes.
Now, if my math was ever any good, it was certainly most accurate when counting money. I riffled my finger down a stack of bills and could estimate that each stack contained a hundred thousand dollars. Holy Jack and his brother, I was standing there looking at a little brown box containing eight hundred grand; and thirty-five or forty of the little bastards just like it stared back at me from the crawl space.
Whatever Cahoone did, he was successful at it; but assuming all the other boxes were the same, why was he hiding all this cash behind a fake wall?
The question burned like a branding iron, but it couldn’t be answered. Besides, it was none of my frickin’ business.
Hard as it was, I set my jaw, clenched my teeth, resealed the box, and put it back on the stack. Then I carefully replaced the panel and continued my perusal of the place, cleaning up what I could, sopping up a few water spots, and all the time thinking about all that cash stashed in Cahoone’s office.
Thank God, the fireman didn’t get as curious as I was.
19 – It Just Keeps Getting Deeper
“Smoke damage, Joe. It’s everywhere! Even my sable got smoked.” She was talking fast and half-crying. “All my clothes, and Darragh’s too, have to be cleaned, plus the carpets. And repainting, and a lo
t of wood and the drapes replaced. Even the plastic plants melted!”
“So, what’s the bottom line to get it back like it was.”
“First they have to wipe the ceiling and wipe down all the walls to get rid of the stuff from the fire extinguishers.”
“Give me the bad news.”
“You don’t wanna hear.”
“Tell me.”
Katya took her usual long beat and then blurted, “Thirty-four thousand, six-hundred and forty-seven dollars, and I’m sorry.”
I had to let it sink in a few seconds before I could form words in my head.
“Joe, are you there? Did you hang up?”
“I’m here. And don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” Oh, man, the shit just kept getting deeper. “Does that include the drapes and plants?”
“Yeah, everything. I’d help, but he only gives me checks for groceries, clothes, hair and makeup.”
I tried to sound cool. “Tell ‘em to start tomorrow.”
“You’re the best, Joe. You’re a real doll of a man.”
A doll of a man.
We hung up and I added the princely sum to my mental tally and got dizzy. I was up to sixty-five thousand, all command payments due in three weeks or less.
I could’ve told Katya to tell her fat-cat fake husband to crack open a little brown box and cover the damage himself, but that’s not the way Joe Oaks was built. Besides, I was sure Katya had no knowledge of the cash cache, and I’d also made a commitment to her and that was that.
So, I spent the rest of the morning on the phone with New York, LA and Nashville attempting to line up music clients. There were only a couple who needed a good promotion man, and no one wanted me to start until the first of the month.
