by Dan Taylor
“Why would I want to rile the guy who’s sitting next to me with a pistol? That wouldn’t be smart.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Take the next right.”
We pull onto Sunset Boulevard.
Then I notice Hancock’s got a strange look on his face, like he farted and followed through a little, and then he says the last thing I expect him to say.
21.
“I think I’m having a heart attack!”
“What?”
“I can’t feel my heart beat, or I can feel it too much. I’m not sure.”
“Slow down! Take your foot off the pedal.”
Guy’s panicking, and his face has gone purple… shit! There’s a cab thirty yards in front.
And worse still, Hancock, the panicking nitwit, has taken his hands off the wheel again.
Although it won’t relieve the pressure he’s putting on the gas pedal, I take the steering wheel.
I say, “Take your foot off the gas pedal, Han—” but don’t get to finish, as he does something that makes me realize that all that stuff he was asking me about, making me feel like he was trying to “give the cow a name” was a load of horseshit.
He was luring me away from what his real hope was.
He leans under my arms and over my lap, unbuckles my seatbelt a second before we crash into the back of the cab.
22.
“Hey, asshole! Wake up!”
When I come to, my nose is throbbing. Broken. When my vision clears, I look to my right, at the driver’s seat, and see it empty, and the driver’s-side door ajar.
I look past that, and see a guy waiting outside the truck on the sidewalk, continually calling me asshole.
Then he says something that clears up who he is. “You crashed into my fucking cab.”
I ignore him and block him out of my mind, and take out my cell phone, see that I’ve got a couple missed calls. It was Jimmy. The last one was a couple minutes ago, the one before that five minutes ago. I call him back.
When he answers, I say, “Jimmy. It’s Blake.”
“Elvis?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? You sound funny, like the… who’s that cartoon character who’s a… what do ya call a half woman half fish?”
“Never mind that. My nose is broken. Please tell me you didn’t manage to get in contact with the other Jimmy.”
“Why’s your nose…? Ah, Jesus.”
“Seems I underestimated the neighbor a little.”
“Yeah, you did… Mermaid! That’s it! But what the hell’s her name?”
“Jimmy, listen to me.”
I’m interrupted by the cab driver climbing up into the cab. He points his finger at me, again calling me—you guessed it—an asshole.
“Hold on a second,” I say to Jimmy, then bend the cab driver’s finger back, snapping it in what sounds like two places, and then shove him backwards out of the cab. I shut the door, and then get into the driver’s seat.
I put Jimmy on speaker and then lay the cell phone on the dash.
“Jimmy, you still there?” I ask as I start the engine.
“I’m here.”
“Did you manage to get in contact with—”
“Ariel! But that’s not her whole name—”
“Jimmy, her name is Ariel the Mermaid. Now listen to me. The other Jimmy, have you spoken to him?”
“That’s it. And you sound like her, all high pitched and nasally.”
“Jimmy?”
“I did. And you’ll never guess what.”
I wait for him to answer, as I’m backing up the delivery truck, so I can drive around the totaled cab and get the hell out of here before Asshole Broke Finger calls the cops.
Then he says, “This guy Hancock is—what you call—a conman.”
“That makes sense. It would be pretty good if you told me Jimmy doesn’t want me to kill him.”
“He doesn’t. He wants you to keep him in a safe place, maybe torture him a little, until Jimmy and his guy Beans get there.”
“That might be a little difficult now.”
“Why?”
“I thought that was obvious.”
“Jesus, has he gotten away?”
I hear the noise that’s made on the other end of the line every time Jimmy gets super pissed: that of him picking up and smashing his mother’s urn, which he keeps on the mantel in his office.
When he comes back on the line, he says, “You’re the one who’s picking those itty-bitty bits of pottery out of Ma’s ashes this time, Elvis. And paying for a new urn.”
“I will.”
“How’d he get the jump on you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me, god dammit. Or it’ll be your urn I’m smashing next, after I’ve killed you and cremated you.”
“He crashed the car.”
“And you weren’t wearing your seatbelt? Jesus, Elvis. Every time I watch a movie-flick that happens, at least twice. How’d you get caught with an old chestnut like that?”
“I was wearing mine, but he said he was having a heart attack, so I took the wheel. He put his foot down on the gas and then unclipped mine. You happy, now?”
“ No, I’m not happy, Elvis. If happiness is a deserted island, I’m out at sea in a god damn rowing boat, watching it from afar, and I’ve got the squirts and no toilet paper.” He sighs. “Look, Elvis, I’ll phone Jimmy back up, and tell him you’ve got him, but you need to do your own thing before he can have him. He won’t like it, but he’s going to have to. And in the meantime, find that rotten clam and make a chowder out of him. Wait a minute, let me rephrase that—”
“It’s okay, Jimmy, I get your metaphor.”
“Just to be clear, find him and keep him in a safe place, until Jimmy gets there. Maybe sauté him a little. I know I’m supposed to be going straight, but stick a finger in one of his nostrils and give it a good pull for me, will ya, Elvis.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Now leave me alone for an hour. And when you phone back, make sure it’s to give me good news.”
“You expect me to find him in an hour?”
“Did I say an hour and a half? Or two? Or one and a quarter? Or—”
“I get it, Jimmy.”
Jimmy hangs up.
Shit.
I would’ve had to find Hancock anyway, but now I’ve got a little extra motivation. Jimmy Blumstein and some goon named Beans.
I hear sirens in the distance, so I decide to drop off the delivery truck in the warehouse.
On the way I’ll think of a plan to find Hancock, if he can be found at all.
Guy’ll probably be halfway to Delaware with that box cutter in his pocket by the time I’ve dropped off the hot wheels.
But then I think of something.
23.
Greasy Fingers diner. That’s the place where Hancock met and saved his girl. Twenty years ago, I’d have to go through reams of microfiche, burning the midnight oil in some library, and probably still wouldn’t have found bupkis. But all I had to do was take out my smart phone, google it. Trite technology observation aside, I tried “customer attacks L.A. chef,” but got too many results to go through, so I had to be a little cleverer about it. Guy Hancock doesn’t look like he can fight for shit, even if he’s armed with industrial-grade kitchenware. So, I figured this girl of his, maybe she gave him a helping hand, so I googled “customer and waitress attack L.A. chef” and I found what I was looking for. There’s even a YouTube video of the breaking news segment that a local TV news station produced, along with a photo of the girl, Grace Black, on her wedding day and looking like she skipped breakfast and got straight to drinking.
Wearing my regular clothing and driving my regular car, I’m sitting outside the diner now, waiting for the grease trap chef to come out and talk to me. Rebel Black wouldn’t give me the wax out of his ear until I mentioned the name Hancock, and then he told me he’d finish up making a “full breakfast” and then he’d see
me outside in the parking lot, even though there were more than a few empty booths inside the diner.
It’s nearly been an hour since I last spoke to Jimmy, and I know Jimmy well enough to know that “phone him back in an hour” means phone him back just before then.
So, I take out my phone. Unlike the other times I’ve phoned him today, he’s expecting my call.
“Talk to me.”
“Jimmy, I don’t have Hancock.”
“Try that again, but take the n’t out of it, this time.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Jimmy. Guy ran off and he could be anywhere.”
“Could be anywhere? You must have one of those extra-large—what do you say—scrotums to phone me up and tell me those words, the one big enough to hold three balls.”
“Relax, Jimmy—”
“Don’t tell me to relax. I know what you’re thinking, Elvis. Now that I’m going straight, I’m a soft touch.”
“I don’t think that; it’s just unreasonable to expect me to find the guy in an hour—”
“Unreasonable?”
“Yeah, unreasonable. I’ll find him, just not in the time it takes to drop the delivery truck off at the warehouse, get changed, and then drive to the diner his girlfriend worked at once.”
“Is that a—what’s the word—cryptic answer?”
“It is.”
“You go looking for guys’ girls, I don’t want to hear about it. I’m a respectable businessman now. I suppose it was a little—what’s the word—unrealistic to expect you to find him in such a short amount of time. But the problem is, the other Jimmy isn’t as good as—how do you say—managing his expectations as I am. He don’t like being lied to, neither. So give me a number you can stick to and then deliver.”
I think a second. “I’ll have him in three hours.”
Jimmy sighs. “You’re too honest, Elvis, is what I ought to say to you more often.” He pauses. “Do it in two hours.”
“Two hours and a half hour.”
“What do you think we’re doing here? Two hours and fifteen.”
“Done.”
Before he hangs up, Jimmy says, “Oh, and Elvis, your collar’s sticking up.” He pauses for a second, and then laughs. Says, “You checked, didn’t ya?”
“You got me, Jimmy.”
“I knew it. Works every time.”
Jimmy hangs up.
When he’s in a playful mood, that’s one of Jimmy’s bits, saying guys’ collars are up and then laughing his ass off when they check.
When we’re in each other’s company, I play along by bringing my hand up to my collar, waiting for him to laugh like a drunken hyena, but this time I didn’t have to, as Jimmy was on the end of a telephone.
His being in a playful mood is a good sign. It tells me he’s not as concerned as he’s making out about this Hancock situation. If I know Jimmy, and you don’t have to be around the man long to work him out, he’s just looking for an excuse to give up this idea of going straight, or at least to take a little break from it. It’s killing him, having to go “straight,” at least according to Jimmy’s loose definition, and reigniting an old rivalry with another crime boss would be the perfect excuse. That, and pride, a shitload of pride.
But none of that changes my situation. Hunches are for gambling, but not with your life. I’ve still got to find the guy.
A couple minutes after Jimmy phoned, and just before I was thinking about going back in there, dragging the grease trap out by the pinafore, Rebel Black comes out.
I flash my lights, indicating which car I’m in.
He gets in, and then says, in a Boston accent, “Mind if I smoke?”
“No, go ahead.”
What did I say to get him out here? That I had information about Hancock he might find useful.
He lights up, and then says, “Let me guess. This Hancock guy has been stepping on your toes, and not because he’s a shitty dancer.”
He’s not as dumb as he looks.
“You could say that, but I’m not a malicious man.”
“You look it.”
“Do I?”
He shakes his head, a strange gesture, and then he takes another drag of his cigarette. A long one. Says, “Look, if you think I’m out here because I want to get back at that prick or my wife, then you’re wrong.” He takes another long drag, and then his eyes dart around the dashboard. He says, “There an ashtray?”
“No. Cars made after around 1999 don’t tend to have them.”
I refrain from telling him there’s no place to hold a six pack either.
He opens a window, tries to flick the ash off outside, but it blows back in his face.
So I hand him the empty coffee cup I got from inside his diner.
As we sit in silence a couple seconds, I take in his appearance: his build, hair type, disregarding his facial features.
Then I tell him what I want for the information.
“What are you, some kind of sick fuck?” he asks.
“No, I don’t want them for what you think.” I pause. “This Hancock guy, he stole my girl.”
He nods. “He’s the type to do that. But what the fuck has that got to do with my ex-wife’s panties?”
“I want her back.”
“I still don’t follow.”
“My girl might not like it if she finds out about the other girl, your ex-wife, and if I were to tell her directly, I figure I’m not the most credible source.”
“So you what, want to put the panties some place?”
“They might turn up some place they shouldn’t be, like Hancock’s laundry basket. My girl, she likes to wash her guy’s things.”
He shakes his head again, as I look at his hairline. It’s full.
Then he says, “I don’t know if I can help you out. It wouldn’t feel right, even after what that bitch did to me.”
“What about if I could tell you about a few things Hancock shouldn’t have been doing? How would you feel then?”
He thinks a second. “I think if they were bad, I might be inclined to feel a lot less shitty about handing over a pair of my ex-wife’s panties to a complete stranger.”
“Go and get a pair, and then we can see how you feel. If you’re not comfortable, don’t hand them over. I can’t say fairer than that.”
“Will any pair do?”
“I’d prefer non-dressy, regular, so it looks like she didn’t dress up for the occasion, like she visits often enough for him not to care what type she wears.”
“Smart.”
He finishes his cigarette and then says he’s got a load of her laundry she never came and picked up. She wouldn’t, not from a guy that beat on her like he did, if Hancock’s to be believed, and looking at the guy, I’ve got a hunch he was telling the truth. The type of hunch I’d gamble on.
He goes to get out, but before he does, I tell him I’m going to park by the side of the diner, so none of the customers can see the exchange of panties. I wouldn’t want to tarnish his outstanding reputation in the community.
He’s taken aback by that last comment. Maybe he thinks I’m being cute by referring to the way he treated his wife, but I just want to give him a reason for my moving the car.
And it’s true: I don’t want any of the customers to see us, and none of the drivers on the freeway, either.
So he gets out, looking pensive, and I do what I say.
He goes around to the back of the diner, goes up to a Winnebago, goes in for thirty seconds or so, comes out, and then starts walking back over.
While he does, I take out the pair of latex gloves I put in the glove compartment before I came here, and put them on.
He gets in, notices the gloves, and then his eyes dart around, wondering. He says, “What are they for? Were you expecting dirty panties?”
24.
Two hours and four minutes later…
Jimmy Blumstein comes in the warehouse first. He’s wearing round-lens glasses, which sit atop the bridge of a bill-li
ke nose. He’s got a full head of wiry salt-and-pepper hair, which is combed into an immaculate side parting. His suit, although I imagine it’s tailored, looks too big in the chest, as he’s got shitty posture. Like a vulture. The man looks like a vulture.
Behind him is who I assume is Beans. He lurches into the warehouse, carrying an old-looking leather holdall. His head looks like a watermelon with two holes punched in it for eyes.
“This the guy?” Jimmy Blumstein asks.
I say, “This is the guy, Hancock.”
The guy sitting in the seat, with duct tape over his mouth, starts mumbling in protestation and his eyes go wide.
Beans and Jimmy stand there looking at him a second. Then Jimmy says, “What the hell did you do to him? His face looks like hamburger meat.”
“I had to work him over a little before you came.”
“Well you should have gone a little easier on him. He looks one stiff fart away from his last breath. You believe this shit, Beans?”
“I don’t believe this shit, Jimmy.”
“Shit, you don’t believe this shit.”
I interrupt their intellectual debate. “He’s just a little beat up, is all.”
Jimmy looks at me, holds eye contact. Says, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d have asked for it.”
Beans says, “He’d have asked for it.”
“Like this: Guy who’s not a medical doctor, can you give me your lousy medical assessment of the man sitting before me. Like that I would have asked it.”
I give a wry smile, trying to act diplomatic. “Mr. Blumstein, you’re welcome for my catching Mr. Hancock here.”
Beans takes one step towards me, but Jimmy stops him. Says, “Now, now, Beans, Mr.…Elvis. Have I got that right?”
I nod.
Then he continues: “Mr. Elvis went out of his way to respect my wishes for Mr. Hancock, and he’s kind enough to let us use his warehouse this evening for the piece of business we have to attend to.” He glances at me. “And is that a broken nose?”
“It is.”
“Then it’s only reasonable, on account of his injured nose, which I assume was obtained at the hands of Mr. Hancock, that Mr. Elvis be allowed to engage in a little business himself, before we take over the meeting.”
