by Dan Taylor
Clearly the weed last night hasn’t affected her wit.
When we go through to the kitchen, breakfast is mostly made, and Charles is reading the paper while Barbara finishes off the rest of it.
I’m looking at a cross section of grapefruit, while surrounding me are various breakfast items that look mouth-watering. Bacon, bagels, scrambled eggs, and waffles.
“Are you sure you just want grapefruit, Josh?” Barbara asks.
I’m a professional, and I’m deep undercover, so I refrain. Not doing so would compromise the story Megan fed her parents yesterday, which could unravel our whole cover story. And I can’t have that.
When I stick my spoon into it, juice squirts into my eye.
Megan laughs.
Charles says, “What are you two up to today?”
The hangovers have made everyone quiet, up until Charles asking that question, and it gave me time to think. It gave me opportunity to think of a solution for this me-and-Megan-as-a-team bullshit.
“I’ve got something planned for us,” I say.
31.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE we’re going to the strip club again,” Megan says. “Aren’t we wasting time?”
“I’ve had a guy working on the case. A top computer hacker and researcher. He’s moments away from cracking it, and let me tell you, it looks like a simple case of your biological dad being a loose cannon and your mom replacing him with a good man.”
“Really? That’s such a relief.”
“What did you think when you first found out about Charles?”
“I thought the worst.”
“What’s that?”
“That Charles was my uncle on my mom’s side and that Mom had shacked up with him. Oh, and the loose cannon bit about my biological dad.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“That’s some imagination you’ve got there.”
“It’s just, I feel so close to Charles. Thought he must be blood-related.”
“He’s a good man.”
“He is.”
“But you should tell him to drop that chili sauce shtick for future boyfriends.”
“Why?”
“If I were your real boyfriend, I’d be so afraid to fuck up and hurt your feelings, it would drive us apart. Who knows where your dad would put that stuff in the event of someone hurting his little girl.”
“He’s a pussy cat.”
“A pussy cat that can make a lethal chili sauce. Lucky for me though, I could barely taste that grapefruit this morning.”
“I thought you looked like you were enjoying it too much.”
“The blisters on my tongue could taste it at least.”
My phone beeps. I’ve got a MMS from Regan. It’s a picture pulled from the Internet of a snake tied into a knot.
Megan asks, “Who was that? The hacker guy?”
“My ex-wife. Well, technically she’s still my wife.”
Despite knowing already, Megan sits up in her seat, says, “Ooh, Jake, I didn’t know you were married.”
As soon as a woman knows you have the ability to commit long-term, the way she thinks of you will change forever. My fucking her hadn’t changed her opinion, but now, just like Jane, she’s looking at me in a funny way. And not because she’s got two lazy eyes.
I say, “Only technically. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Do tell.”
“She managed to hide her sociopathic behavior disorder right up until I put a ring on her finger.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
I pass her the phone. Show her the picture.
“Ouch. Is that what she’d do to your penis if she ever got her hands on it again?”
“That would’ve been a better implication. She’s taken to calling me Jake the Snake.”
“Original.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So you’re the snake, and you’re…tied up in a knot over her?”
“I think her meaning is literal. You give her too much credit.”
“How long have you been separated?”
“About eight months. Give or take.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“This isn’t like giving back a friendship ring, Megan. It takes time.”
“Have you been in contact with her the whole time?”
“No, she went through the whole psycho-breakdown, phoning-me-every-day shit when we split. Went quiet for months. And then she got back in contact.”
Megan stares out of the window, thinking. “After eight months?”
“Says she wants to get back together.”
Megan goes to speak, then stops herself.
“What? What is it?”
“No, I shouldn’t say.”
“Say what you were going to say.”
“You don’t think…she got back in contact because she’s pregnant?”
32.
I PUT MY FOOT on the break, and the car screeches to a halt.
“You can’t just stop in the middle of the road, Jake.”
“Don’t say that word again.”
“What? Pregnant?”
I cover my ears, only half playing around.
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
I realize something. “You’re on the pill, right?”
“Fuck you, Jake!”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, I’m on the pill.”
I clutch my hand to my chest, feeling my heart rate slow, then breathe in and out deeply. “Oh, good.”
“You’re a real sensitive guy, Jake.”
“Don’t take it personally. I’m just not ready for fatherhood yet.”
“You’re thirty-seven.”
“But still.”
“I think it’s safe to move you over to the category of men that will never have children.”
I ignore that. “Do you really think my ex-wife could be pregnant?”
“Your wife, do you mean?”
“Yes, my fucking wife…ex-wife. Whatever.”
“Timeframe seems to fit.”
I panic. Women may not know anything about driving or darts or how to hook a bowling ball, but they sure know each other.
“How so?”
“Sounds like she got over you after a couple months. Then learned she was pregnant. And then put off telling you until now, giving herself a month to prep you for the birth. You know, learn Lamaze and whatnot.”
“A woman would do this?”
“Not all women. But yeah, this one could.”
I take out my phone, look at the picture again, then show Megan. “Do you think this could symbolize a vasectomy?”
“Wait, how would that make any sense?”
“That she knows I’ll want one when she reveals her little secret.”
“I think you’re reading into this too much.”
Now that I’ve pointed it out, I’m sure that’s what the knotted snake symbolizes.
Megan says, “I’m not even sure that’s medically accurate. They don’t tie any knots, Jake.”
“But she could think that, right?”
“You’re going to have to start driving or pull onto the side of the road. There’s a car coming upon us.”
I put the car in gear, then pull over.
“I’m going to call her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I do it anyway.
33.
“NO, I’M NOT fucking pregnant.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I think we both agree this would be bad, as opposed to good, with us being separated and all.”
“You phone up in a panic, talking about snakes and vasectomies and a whole host of other shit, and now you start being facetious?”
I look to Megan, and she’s shaking her head pitifully. I have no idea why.
To Regan, I say, “Just forget I called.”
“Okay, creep.”
I remember some
thing. “It made sense, what with you telling me you had something to tell me that would change my mind about us getting back together.”
“And you thought I was using my unborn baby as emotional leverage to get my creep of an ex-husband back?”
I look to Megan again, and she’s still shaking her head.
“It made sense, yeah.”
“Oh, you are beyond help, Jake Hancock.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I say, “So what is it? The news?”
Regan sighs. “Sometimes talking to you is like talking to the teenage son I never had.”
“Watch the phrasing.”
“Goodbye, Jake.”
I catch her just before she hangs up. “So, just to make sure, you’re not pregnant.”
She sighs again, then hangs up.
I look to Megan, who’s looking at me like I’ve just pissed into a strong wind, and I say, “What?”
34.
“YOU SHOULD REALLY watch a couple select episodes of Dr. Phil. Or maybe the first season of Jerry Springer, before he went all white trash.”
“I could’ve been more tactful, I agree.”
I start driving again.
“You really don’t get women at all, do you, Jake?”
I ponder that as we drive.
“I don’t get that particular one. But it would be misogynistic to assume every woman would react the way she did.”
“Any woman would’ve blown the way she did. Trust me.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“It’s true.”
My phone beeps, and I think it’s Regan. Maybe a picture of a charbroiled snake this time. But it’s from Scottie. He’s got an address for me. The place I’m after is in Texas, at least. But it’s a hell of a drive, if the Zip code is any indication.
“What did she say?”
“She apologizes, says she overreacted.”
Megan laughs.
“She did.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re right. She said I bet snake tastes like chicken.”
“She’s good. That works on many levels.”
“I told you. Complete sociopath.”
We’re silent as we drive for five or so minutes.
Megan asks, “How long are we going to be at the strip club?”
“Titty bar.”
“Whatever.”
“As long as it takes.” I see the club on a hill, a half mile ahead. “Here it is now.”
As we get closer, Megan says, “It looks closed.”
“That’s how it looked yesterday.”
“Good point.”
I pull into the car park, the engine still running.
I say, “Go inside and I’ll find us a spot.”
“It’s almost empty. You can park wherever you like.”
“Then go inside and get us two of those Czech beers each. And some fives.”
Megan looks skeptical.
“Unless you want me to go inside and you can park?”
“Okay, I’ll go.”
As soon as Megan gets out, I speed away, look into the rearview mirror to see Megan with her hands on her hips, mouthing “You son of a bitch.”
35.
SHE’S RIGHT. I am a son of a bitch. But not because of what I just did, but for many other reasons. In fact, that was probably one of the most selfless things I’ve done in my life.
You’ll see if this thing plays out how I think it’s going to.
I take out my phone and bring up the address Scottie gave me, pull up Street View, and then phone Scottie.
He answers with a groan.
“What was that, Scottie?”
“I asked if you’re there yet.”
“I’ve just set off. Listen, the address you’ve given me is a residential place.”
“So?”
“I need more info. Who’s the guy I’m going to see, etc.”
“Dean Gordon Anderson.”
“Sounds like the name of an astronaut. Who is he?”
“He owns a surgery.”
“What kind?”
“It’s too embarrassing to say. And I’m pretty sure I’m wrong.”
“You’re never wrong.”
“This time I might be.”
I sigh. “What is it, Scottie?”
He pauses. “Do you have one of those client confidentiality agreements?”
“What’s that got anything to do with it?”
“Are you able to tell me what you’re investigating?”
“You’re asking if I can tell the details of the case to a brilliant computer hacker who I’ve hired to do research?”
“Right.”
“That question seems a bit redundant, don’t you think?”
“Good point.”
“Megan has found out her father isn’t her biological father, and I’m finding out who he is, and who her real father is.”
Scottie breathes into the phone. “Right, I’m definitely wrong then. I must have the wrong organization. Forget we ever had this conversation.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve found, then I can decide if it’s relevant?”
“I’ll feel really silly if I do. You’ve met her family, right?”
“I have.”
“Okay, that settles it. I’m definitely wrong.”
Scottie’s trying my patience. “Just tell me a little bit, then.”
There’s a long pause. “Okay, one of the procedures they do, according to my medical mumbo-jumbo deciphering, involves creating a new arsehole from flesh surrounding—“
I cut him off. “Scottie, you’re a scary man, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible, but that sounds like absolute nonsense.”
“I told you.”
I sigh. “Okay, but I still want to question this guy. I’ll go in blind, press him hard on what his connection with Barbara and Charles Books is, if there is any. But I need something to get me through the door.”
“What like?”
“Find something, start with the police departments in Atlantic City and Vegas. If you get me a misdemeanor, that would be great, felony would be fantastic.”
“How long have I got?”
“Two hours, max.”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Scottie.”
I put the address into the Sat Nav.
The female voice says, “In fifty yards, make a U-turn.”
“Fuck.”
I make the U-turn, and have to drive past Megan.
She thinks I’ve come to pick her up, runs out into the road, and I have to swerve around her. When I look in the rearview mirror, she flips me the bird, calls me a son of a bitch again.
36.
I LEFT MEGAN at Sister D’s for two reasons. One) it’s practically in the middle of nowhere, which means she’d have to phone her parents to pick her up if she wanted to leave, but there’s no way Megan is going to phone her parents to pick her up from there; two) if there’s one place a young twenty-something actress is safe drinking alone all day, it’s at a titty bar where most of the strippers are hillbilly lesbians. She’ll be there till I go and pick her up later on.
I phoned ahead, too, before Megan and I set off. Spoke to the barman with the jar of keys, told him to keep an eye on her and to make sure that she doesn’t go anywhere. He told me to go fuck myself, but I offered him $500 for the trouble. He said for $500 he could keep her there all day and night if I wanted. I don’t think he meant in that way, but I told him it wasn’t necessary anyway.
I arrive at the gated community Dean Gordon Anderson lives in, pull up outside the gate for the street, and wait.
Scottie hasn’t gotten back to me yet.
So I phone him. “What have you got for me, Scottie?”
“You were right about Vegas, you lucky bastard.”
“Hit me.”
37.
IT’S ONLY A misdemeanor, but I think Scottie’s struck gold.
I’m
sure he has, actually.
I just need ten seconds with Dean Gordon Anderson, and then he’ll be spilling beans faster than a Mexican waiter with vertigo.
But getting that ten seconds will be difficult.
Dean Gordon Anderson lives in a gated community, which means that A) he’s rich and B) he’s security conscientious. Pedantic, even.
I need to find a way to get ten seconds with the guy, which won’t be as easy as you might think. Chances are he won’t answer his own door, will probably get his wife or his butler to do it, who’ll I need to get past.
I need a decent disguise, but all I have are the clothes that Andre provided me.
I open the glove compartment and find something that the previous driver must’ve left behind.
“Bingo.”
38.
I’VE PULLED MY pants up high, which has exposed an inch of tartan sock, taken my jumper off, and fastened the top button of my short-sleeved shirt.
In the glove compartment were horn-rimmed glasses, which complete the outfit.
A notepad will be my solitary prop, and I’m ready to rock n’ roll.
On the sign reads ‘La Grange Community.’
I press the button for Dean Gordon Anderson’s house.
A female, presumably his wife, answers, “Anderson residence.”
“Hello there, Mrs. Anderson. I’m from the IRS, and I’m here to arrange a tax audit with your husband, Dean Gordon Anderson.”
“On a Sunday?”
“On a Sunday.”
“Let me just get—”
“I’ve always found these meetings go much better when conducted in a face-to-face fashion. If you could just buzz me in.”
There are two nervous seconds. “Oh, all right.”
The gate opens and I walk to the front door.
I’m greeted by Mrs. Anderson, who’s poking her head out of the door, taking in my appearance.
She says, “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Eugene Turner, ma’am.”
“Do you have a badge or an ID card I can look at?”
I prepared myself for this. I look down at my breast pocket, then say, “Shoot. Always on Sundays. I’ll be right back.”
I turn, take five steps, and then Mrs. Anderson says, “Don’t worry about it.”
