The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition

by Travis Adams Irish

float through danger the way he had when he was a child. It has been some time since he just went for a walk, and his body welcomes the refreshed feeling of light exercise. His mind starts to stray back to The Academy Awards from, what will become known as, an infamous Sunday evening in his life. But he shrugs it off dutifully, refusing to dwell on something that could change for the better at a later date.

 

  After he shakes off these feelings of doubt and self-loathing, Rory stops for a moment to turn and stretch on the sidewalk, raising his hands high in the air as he lazily looks at the passing traffic. Something seems off as he turns enough to see the sidewalk behind him. In his peripheral vision, a man stops moving, then poses in a fake manner as if checking the time on his wristwatch. He turns to look at the man more carefully, first noticing his solid black track suit and white running shoes that make him stand out, giving off the appearance of a cat burglar in this city that prefers color and style. The man seems European from his pale features and unapologetic stubble. Also, his hair is grown out and combed badly into a wave, making him look like a model from a can of hairspray in the 1980s.

 

  When Rory looks closer, he notices the man is not wearing a wristwatch, and his stomach twists in discomfort as he realizes this person has been following him. Rory immediately turns away, walking toward the corner of Wilshire and Rodeo, wanting to reach a more public setting.

 

  “Wait!” The man shouts and Rory hears footsteps shuffling up the sidewalk as the man jogs up to join him. “I’m sorry,” the man begins with a thick British accent, “but I thought I recognized you and didn’t know how to react. Were you on The Academy Awards last night?” He asks with a humble smile.

 

  “Yeah,” Rory says, quickly, “but now is not a good time, I really just want to be alone today. I appreciate you coming up and saying hi, though.” He adds dismissively and turns to walk away.

 

  “Well aren’t you just a fucking typical American cunt?” The man declares with rhetoric in an angry tone as he steps closer to Rory.

 

  “Look, guy,” Rory starts to say with more than a little attitude before he turns all the way around and notices the pistol pointed at his abdomen from the man’s right hip.

 

  “Yes, I’m listening, sweetheart,” the man responds with a cocky tone putting his left hand to his ear. “Oh, now that I have a gun, you don’t feel like telling me to go suck a cock anymore?” He asks with a cheerful grin, stepping closer to Rory as he shoves the cold barrel of the pistol down the back of Rory’s jeans. “Holy shit!” The man exclaims with frustration, “Undo your top button, princess.”

 

  “What!?” Rory asks with disgust as he feels the smooth, cool steel digging slightly under the elastic band on the back of his boxer shorts.

 

  “I said,” the man raises his voice, putting his mouth close to Rory’s ear. “Undo your top button so I can hide my pistol down the back of your tight little princess pants.” He waits for second, realizing that Rory doesn’t seem afraid, then adds, “otherwise I’ll shoot you in the spine. It will be easier to draw blood from a paralyzed man anyway.”

 

  Rory grits his teeth as he hears this and undoes the top button of his jeans as instructed. After this is done, he feels the square barrel of the pistol pushed down the back of his pants, pressing tight against his right buttocks.

 

  “There now,” the man declares with arrogance, “we just look like a cute, gay couple going shopping. Lets keep walking, and look happy.” He instructs in a menacing tone, as he and Rory continue down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder.

 

  “What do you have?” Rory asks with frustrated concern, moving awkwardly with the pistol in his back.

 

  “It’s a Glock .45,” the man says quickly, “great gun to blow the hell out of anyone who gets in your way.”

 

  “I mean what do you have? What illness do you have that needs to be cured?” Rory asks impatiently looking around Wilshire Boulevard for any signs of potential escape or rescue as they round the corner onto Rodeo.

 

  “Oh, you want to play small talk, is that it? Get to know each other?” He asks with severe disdain. “Well, my name is Booker, and I don’t need your blood because I’m just fuckin’ fine. But I did call some friends back when you left the house and they will be joining us soon.”

 

  “What the fuck do you want from me?” Rory asks with fear and shock.

 

  “Jesus Christ, listen to the way you talk to each other in this Country with a gun in your back,” Booker declares indignantly. “No wonder you people go to war every 20 years. First you try to give me the brush off like some A-list celebrity cunt, now you want to know who dares to fuck with your day and why.” Booker shakes his head back and forth briefly, and then tips his head back and hocks roughly from the rear of his throat, spitting a disgusting yellow ball of phlegm on the sidewalk. “We are going to a silent auction,” he asserts after a long pause.

 

  “An auction?” Rory asks tightening his eyes a bit with suspicion. “An auction for what?”

 

  “An auction for your pretty little princess ass.” Booker states without hesitation.

 

  “You can’t sell me!” Rory says, turning a bit to look Booker in the eyes and seeing that he is serious.

 

  “Well that would have been true if you hadn’t fired your security team. I don’t know what you said to Jack Stansbury, but that guy wants your ass dead, mate. How did you fuck that up, by the way? I mean, out of all the people in the world who could have protected you, Jack is the best. His people are loyal, they don’t take bribes, and they work for less than they’re worth. Why would you insult a guy who has retired Navy SEALs protecting your worthless ass all day? I mean, Jesus man, those guys were trained killers; they would have died for you.”

 

  Rory doesn’t respond, he just continues walking, looking down at the gaps in the slabs of cement as they pass under his feet. His face is as pale and chalky as the sidewalk in the morning sun.

 

  “Well, whatever,” Booker says impatiently after waiting for an answer. “I don’t really care what you did to piss Jack off, but you should know that whatever you did, it’s going to cost you… The rest of your life.”

 

  “I’m not going with anyone. You can’t auction me off; I’m not a fucking TV. People will notice that I’m missing.” Rory retorts, staring hard into the distance.

 

  “Yes, but you were so distraught over losing your girlfriend and so conflicted with the idea of playing God, that you decided to off yourself.” Booker announces with a great deal of pride. “It’s quite beautiful really; more than you deserve to be remembered as a hero. One of our guys is at your house now, writing a lovely goodbye note to your girlfriend. In twelve hours, you’ll be on your way to China, or Germany, or wherever; I don’t really give a shit.”

 

  Rory stops walking, he breathes in shallow gasps now, realizing that Booker is serious.

 

  “Oh, no, hell no,” Booker orders in a threatening tone, “you just keep moving; mate, or I will put a bullet through your spine. Those are my orders if you try to run; put a bullet in your spine and make it easier to ship you where you need to go.”

 

  When he feels the pistol moving out from under his jeans Rory comes back into reality and starts walking with Booker again.

 

  “That’s right,” Booker says with approval as they start moving again. “We’re almost there. When we get to the Starbucks, don’t try any bullshit or your sweet little Kelly will be getting a lot more than a note from my guy. I’ll give you some
unsolicited advice… Just roll forward with this, it can be much better or worse depending on how you cooperate.”

 

  As they enter the Starbucks on South Santa Monica and North Beverly Drive, Rory is struck with a surreal rush of anxiety and nostalgia. He and Kelly used to walk down to this spot all the time to enjoy a coffee together. Within the coffee shop, almost every table is occupied by men in business suits or business casual attire. Rory screws up his face as he notices an unusual mix of foreigners among this group. To his left, he sees a portly man and a small, thin man from China both dressed in black suits, waiting impatiently at their table with two large cups of coffee. On his right, he notices three strong-jawed African men wearing cheap gray suits; their faces are stalwart and militant as they also wait with large coffee cups on their table. Rory and Booker walk past more tables into the center of the dining area and he sees several more pairs of men from different cultures, such as: Arabian, South American, Korean, Japanese, and others that he doesn’t recognize.

 

  Finally they get to the only empty table in the center of the dining area which has a placard on the tabletop with the word ‘reserved’ stenciled in bright white letters on a black background. Booker removes the placard from the table and sets it on an empty chair at his left as he gestures for Rory to take a seat to his immediate right. He removes a large, green handkerchief from the pocket of his track suit and uses it to cover the pistol as he pulls it from the back of Rory’s jeans. Then Booker sets his left hand on the table, covering the pistol with the handkerchief. He raises the corner of the