

L.A. SUCCESS

By

Lonnie Raines

Copyright © 2018 Lonnie Raines

Cover Design by Lance C. Schafer, featuring a classic American Airlines travel poster.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. That being said, the toilet-dwelling alien? Completely real. Seriously, he's exactly like that in real life. Let the lawsuits begin...

First published July 24th, 2011

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the beautiful city of Los Angeles, which, in its own very strange and unique way, renewed my faith in humanity.

To P.: It appears very silly of me to say such serious things in the dedication of a book this outrageous and ridiculous, but I love you and you make my life wonderful. K.M.L.Y.M.I.!!!

Foreward

Forewards to books, I believe we can all agree, are generally wretched things that readers glance over mostly out of courtesy. This one is probably no more worth reading than any other, so I'll try to get the important bits out of the way quickly.

This novel was first published under the name "L.A. Success" by joint authors Hans C. Freelac and Lonnie Raines, both pseudonyms. Two ridiculous events have led to a name change. First, apparently the words "L.A. Success" are already spoken for by a couple of well represented organizations who have assured me

Part 1

1

I'm a guy who lives in L.A., and I've got a story to tell you. But first, let me get something straight so you know what you're dealing with right up front. I'm not one of those guys who will rip you off at the end by making up some craziness that comes out of nowhere. I hate when people do that. It's like in that movie E.T.: I'm all emotionally invested in that little green weirdo's life, and then what does he do? He gets on a bike and flies up over the moon. He was completely screwing with us the whole film, because he could have flown away from those scientist guys a lot earlier. No, I won't pull any garbage like that on you.

This is the story of how I, Lonnie Herisson, went from being a guy who just coasted along in life to being an L.A. success. But here's the thing: it starts with me getting dumped. Now, if I told you why I got dumped, you might start thinking I was some kind of loser, and that's really no way to get to know me, right? So just take it from me that I didn't do anything morally reprehensible. I just didn't have my act together. I'll give you more details about that later, when I'm sure you'll be more understanding.

First you have to get a good picture in your head of how I looked and where I was when this whole thing started. Imagine a short, round, thirty-something guy standing on the Santa Monica Pier, watching the sun set over the ocean. Next give me some crazy, thick black hair—the kind of hair you have to cut really short or else it grows straight out like a Munchichi's. As far as clothes are concerned, the only thing you need to get right is the shirt that I'd just picked up in one of the souvenir stores. It's a classic: a plain white T with a black-and-white image of my man Arnold flexing his pythons. My old shirt was in the trash can because it had stains all over it. In my hand was the culprit, a citrus-Gatorade bottle filled with red wine. Yeah, I know, that wasn't too bright. But give me a break, I was depressed. After all, at that very instant, my woman was packing up all her stuff and moving out of my house. Maybe you can imagine me with a serious look on my face, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, as I struggled to figure out how everything went wrong. In reality I had more of a sloshed look, and I was playing classic L.A. games, like "Count the people from east L.A. who are swimming in their clothes," and "Is he her grandpa or her husband?" But go easy on me. I was trying not to miss my ex.

And that's why I had come to the pier—I needed to distract myself long enough to give Helen time to move out without me doing something potentially embarrassing, like dropping to the ground and grabbing onto her ankles to prevent her from leaving. I took another swig of my Gatorwine and told myself I had way too much class to do something like that.

I decided that the best way to kill time would be to do things I wasn't used to doing. That way I'd have so many new things to think about that I wouldn't even notice the evening slipping away. Now, I've lived my entire life in Santa Monica, but until that night I had never once taken a ride on the Ferris wheel or the roller coaster. I had always thought that stuff was for out-of-towners, but at that moment I couldn't have imagined anyone I'd have rather been than a tourist, with all my problems miles and miles away.

I bought a handful of tickets at the entrance to the pier amusement park. I played the games, I rode the rides, and I actually talked to people. While waiting in line, I asked the tourists where they were from, and I had to smile and nod like I knew exactly where their states were when they told me. Some of them could tell I was faking. I had learned geography in school, but with experience I had adopted a more useful, intuitive map that replaced the real one. And here's how it looks: we've got the gorgeous state of California, full of national parks, bears, gold, and beautiful people. To the north of that, there's pretty much Canada. Heading east, there's the state of Las Vegas and the state of Grand Canyon. Now, as you approach the center, everything starts losing its color and its beauty, turning progressively darker until there's only squid-ink ooze swirling around like the vortex of a toilet. Texas is right below that, barely clinging on. And finally, on the other side of all that, there's New England, New York and Florida. Most of the people I talked to were from vortex states, which are also apparently known by their fetish food items. For example, some lady asked me "How can you not know where Iowa is? Corn?" Sorry lady. Give me hundreds of films a year made in your state, and maybe then you'll get a spot on the map.

I was tired then and wanted to go home. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was gone and my house was empty. I walked back to my place, which is up north of Wilshire Boulevard—yeah, I'll have to explain that one later. A guy like me living there, that's something. My lights were off. My wreck of a car was alone in the driveway. I turned the door knob, forgetting it would be locked. I went around the back, opened the screen door, and wiggled the knob a little until it popped open.

In my house I'm like a bat. I've got some sort of bat sense, which is good since I was all wined up and because I'd been needing glasses for a long time. And I didn't want to see the way the house looked with her stuff gone. So I left the lights out and slid through my cave, back to my bedroom. I dropped my Arnold shirt on the floor and undid my belt. My shorts plopped straight down. I stepped out of the little pile and jumped in bed.

Now this is when things got weird. I was lying in the middle of the bed, all stretched out with my eyes closed. The problem was that everything was so quiet that my bat sense couldn't work. You see, Helen snored a little, and that snore would go around the room, bouncing all over the place, and then into my ear holes. If I had left a door open or if something wasn't in its usual place, I could tell without looking. I had to have some noise, because without it I felt like I was in a different room. And what if some maniac from south of Wilshire broke into my house and tried to sneak around? I wouldn't be able to tell he was there. That freaked me out.

I rolled out of bed with the sheets all tangled up in my legs. I stumbled over to the wall and hit the light switch. It was a disaster. My room had been cleaned out. Where the CD stand used to be there were only a couple of CD's on the floor. I needed noise, so I grabbed them. All the good stuff had been hers. I had a Dokken album, but there was no way I could sleep to that. I also found this thing, "Sounds of North American Frogs" by Charles M. Bogert. That was weird—I didn't remember ever buying that. But hey, I gave it a try and it worked. Those frog barks bounced around my room, and I was sure if a lunatic came at me in my sleep, he'd have to walk through the barking and I'd know.

2

I got up the next morning and took a look around. Helen had been really nice and had cleaned up the place. The furniture was still there, but all the decorations had been hers. The walls were now bare, the shelves empty.

I put my Arnold shirt on again because it had gotten me through the previous night, and I was sure it would bring me good luck. And I know luck comes in everywhere because I used to play baseball—I was the guy who warmed up the pitchers in the bullpen. Those guys, they win and they don't wash their socks until they lose. Or their hats. Or worse. And that's seriously nasty, that worse one. So here's what I asked myself: What if I got me another Arnold shirt, maybe even two of them, and then alternated until the good vibes ran out? I decided that was a sweet plan. But then reality ran up and slapped me in the face: that last twenty I spent had come out of Helen's purse. In fact, all the twenties I spent had come out of Helen's purse. But I wasn't a scumbag—I paid the rent. Well, there was nothing really to pay. I own the house.

I live north of Wilshire Boulevard. You look in the ads for a place in Santa Monica, and if it doesn't say "It's north of Wilshire," then you know you'd be living next to nutbags in a garbage dump. My place is run down, but I got the richest dudes around me, and they drive nice cars and bring back the ladies for the doing. The houses around mine are amazing. They look like mansions. The lawns are perfect—these illegal Mexican guys are there every day working themselves sweaty, probably for nothing, too. I refuse to hire the Mexicans on account of principles: I shouldn't have to have grass if I don't want any. And anyway, the neighbors walk their dogs here all the time, and the dogs do their business all over. If I had lots of grass, I couldn't see where they went and avoid stepping in it. Well...they pick it up, those neighbors, but they never get all of it.

I see the way the dog walkers look at my house when they stop to pick up the poo. They follow the cracks in my stucco up to my sunken roof. They count the missing shingles. Then they look at the dead bushes and trees that new neighbors come over to plant every couple of years in a desperate attempt to raise their own property value. It's a small house, so they go on their way pretty quick. With their poo and their dogs. And that's why I swore I'd never have a dog: who wants to touch poo? They say, "Yeah, I've got a plastic glove on when I pick it up, so I don't really touch it." So if I put a love glove on, can I not really get romantic with your girlfriend? I'm going to say that someday. Gotta admit you're touching poo then.

But like I was saying, it's my house. My gramps had it when he croaked, and since my dad was living somewhere on the beach in Venice, I inherited it. Oh I tried to make my dad stay in it, but he isn't entirely right in the head. He used to be sharp as a tack. Big future, they said. Then he got a little weird and started playing chess, and all he talked about was chess and Bobby Fischer. He's pretty good at it, I guess—I mean my dad. Anyway, that's all he used to do down in Venice. Well that and he made sand sculptures for the tourists. Between the two he made some good money. I'd go down sometimes and give him a buck, even two if he did busty mermaids. And for a while I had to go down every week when this other sand guy was trying to run him off. He wanted a sand monopoly or something. How ridiculous is that? I went down there and hid in a bar, and when the guy was almost finished with his dragon—that was his thing, dragons—I would whiz up to him like a pinball and jump all over it. I did that for two weeks, and then we made a deal, so everything was cool.

All that to say that I couldn't buy another Arnold shirt right then. There were all sorts of things I wasn't going to be able to pay for. I had to come up with some dough fast.

I headed to the Third Street Promenade, bought a few tacos, and scarfed them down in front of the topiary dinosaur fountain. I told myself that maybe I could get a job at one of the stores on the Promenade, at least until Helen changed her mind and came back.

There was one store that had lots of surf crap and loud music. It seemed like a night club or something. I watched the door and no one older than thirty was going in or out, and when I did see an employee, she looked like a super model. Then I noticed that all the people working in the clothing stores were like super models, so I forgot about that quick. Then I saw a dork going into a coffee shop, and for a minute I tried to think about doing that—I mean working there. But I hated coffee, so that would've pissed me off to be getting free stuff I didn't want.

3

I had to start conserving, so that night I cut one of my frozen pizzas in two, left one half in the box and ate the other in front of the tube. I was also back into the Gatorwine, but I still had the labels wrong. I had the grape bottle all ready this time, but Helen had only left me three bottles of white wine. I was sure if I went out in public with it, someone was going to notice. I also discovered that Helen had taken the wine glasses. In the end it was a good thing she had taken them, because with the new Gator system I could roll around everywhere without spilling. I used to have to set my wine down before I rocked out of the couch to go take a leak or whatever.

A couple of hours later, there was a knock at the door. It was Tim, the only neighbor I liked. He lived at the very end of the street, which was probably why my crappy house didn't bother him. He was a good guy. He worked with computers or sold hiking gear or something.

"Hey Tim, who ya doin'?" said me.

"Lonnie, just swell."

"You're doing me, you dirty perv? Well come on in then." I said.

"Not enough time. Just got home from work and I have to go walk the dog, but I wanted to come over and wish you well. Helen dropped by before she left to give me back a thing or two you had borrowed, and she told me."

"Oh yeah? What'd she say?"

"Not much. She said it was over. She looked pretty beat up over it."

This Tim guy wasn't as round as me. I used to wonder why Helen didn't leave me for him, since he had a job and a nicer house.

"Did she say she'd see you around?" I said, feeling clammy.

"No."

I saw him glance quickly behind me at the empty walls, at the stuff that was different. It's written all over the place when a woman leaves for good. He looked at me again and now he seemed sadder, and I knew he'd been dumped bad before, too.

"Hear about Alice?" he asked. Alice was the special or challenged or gifted—whatever means not too bright now—woman who lived on our street. She was nice, but she had a short memory. She kept asking me if I was going to plant some grass. She asked every week. And then, just to mess with her, I said I already had and it was going to need mowing soon. For months after that she would stop to stare at it every time she passed by, looking really close for the blades. Then she started over again with the planting question. I couldn't avoid her because she was always going up and down the street when she walked all the neighborhood dogs. She did other stuff that cracked me up. One day, when traffic was routed through our neighborhood because of the presidential visit, Alice went out into the intersection and started directing the traffic, sending cars left and right. And since none of those drivers had ever been down our street, they just did what she told them to, running the stop signs and everything.

"Nah, I been busy," I said.

"Her uncle found a group home for her. They thought her being alone all day might not have been the best arrangement. I'm happy for her, but I have to admit I don't know what I'm going to do with Buster while I'm at work."

"Good luck with that," I said.

"Well, I was thinking. Just temporarily, perhaps, it might take your mind off things to walk Buster. Given that you've not already found something to distract you, of course. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but Alice actually charged us a fortune, so it wouldn't be that big of a waste of time."

The other thing I remembered about Alice was the bunch of pink plastic gloves she kept tucked in her pocket. For the poo that she didn't touch.

"I got something right now," I said, hoping he wouldn't ask me what. It sounded like a good idea, but I needed a night to decide if I could deal with the gloves.

"No prob. Again, hope you're feeling all right. We'll get together for a drink soon." And he was off.

4

After sleeping on it, I decided I was going to walk that dog. I needed distraction and money. I hadn't given up on the Arnold plan, and the shirt I had was getting smelly. Two more days at the most and I would need a new one, so I had to make a little cash.

That evening, when Tim's restored Mustang came tooling down the street, I walked down to talk to him. He was looking at some letters he had pulled out of the mailbox when I arrived.

"Hi Lonnie. Feeling okay?" he asked.

"I'm surviving. Just wanted to see about Buster. I'm thinking of walking the little bastard after all," I said.

"Well, sure. That'd be great. It'll help me out a lot."

"So what did you give Alice to do it? I mean walk Buster."

"I gave her thirty dollars a week to take him out in the mornings and afternoons."

I calculated the math on that and I was thinking it wouldn't be worth it. Tim could see I wasn't going to go for it.

"But you should consider that everyone on this street is in the same position as I am now that Alice is gone. There are twelve dogs that need to be walked. Alice took them four at a time, a total of about three hours a day."

Damn, that gifted Alice was smarter than I'd thought. That was tax-free money.

"That's great. I'll walk them all," I said, still counting money in my head.

"Sounds good. I'll phone the neighbors and tell them I have someone. Come by my place in the morning and I'll give you the list."

"Can you spot me a little?" I asked, and he said no problem. He gave me the first month in cash. And like that I had a job.

I went down to the pier to get some new Arnold shirts. Then I picked up some hamburgers and fries to go from In-n-Out, and some bottles of booze. I made it back home just after sunset.

While I ate, I thought about my schedule for the next day. I had to get up early because Tim worked regular hours. I had been staying up late forever, so I decided to get sloshed so I could fall asleep before midnight. But when the time came, I didn't feel tired, even with the booze. My mind was racing. I hit play on the frog CD and got into bed anyway, and everything in my head got flushed out when I heard the hypnotizing barking, as if I had taken a strong sleeping pill.

In the morning I put on a fresh Arnold. I figured I'd go get the list fast and then come back to eat breakfast. Tim was pulling out of his driveway as I came down the street. He stopped, pulled back in, got out of the car, made some gestures with his hand like he was pointing up in the air, and ran inside. He came out a few seconds later with a piece of paper and a key chain full of keys.

"I almost forgot about you. I'm in a rush. Here are the people who need their dogs walked. I wrote down the names of the dogs and their breeds, along with vet numbers, should anything happen. And here are the keys." He handed it all to me, got back in the Mustang and hit the road.

At ten o'clock I went to get my first four dogs: two weimaraners, a beagle-looking mutt, and a terrier. Before I even stuck the keys in the locks, they were at the other side of the door waiting for me, making dog noises. I wondered if they'd be disappointed when I opened the door and they didn't see Alice, but they didn't give a shit. I liked that. I could've been a dirt bag or something and they would've wagged and wagged their tails anyway.

Everybody had left leashes by the door, but as I was walking down the street with the mutts, I realized what I was missing. We came to a sweet lawn and one of the weimaraners kind of rounded his back and looked like he was going to stand up on his back legs, but he froze when his front paws were really close to the back ones. Then he got this queer look on his face and stared right at me. And then the turds. They were big, those turds. I was thinking, okay, I gotta go get a trash bag and use that until I can get some poo-touching gloves. So I was walking away when I heard this crazy voice yelling in Mexican. I turned around and this fat woman came running over from behind the bushes and pointed at the turds. I explained, but she didn't understand. She kept pointing to the turds, saying "No leave, no leave." Every time I opened my mouth, she started up again with the "no leave" and the pointing. So I took off my shoe, and she got all scared as if I was going to throw it at her. Then I took off my sock. I put my hand into it and scooped up the turds. I held that warm, steamy poo out as far from my nose as possible and walked over to the nearest trash can. I didn't keep the sock. That lady didn't even say gracias.

The next dog that wanted to take a dump got a little kick in the ass, followed by a sprint to my yard. I got the idea of letting all the dogs crap on my lawn since I didn't have any way to pick the stuff up. I stood there with them in front of my house, but they refused to cooperate. I knew they were dying to do their business, but they had to walk around and get inspired by a nice lawn first. Okay, I guess I kind of do that in my own way with the sex, so I understood. We walked around for a while, and whenever one of them would arch its back and get that crazy look, I'd kick it in the ass and take off running to my place. At the end of the day, I had a dozen or so piles in front of my house. I'd had enough of dogs for a while, so I just left the turds there.

5

Tim had been right about how the dogs would help me take my mind off things. It's like everything was falling into place, and my days were nice and broken up now. I'd wake up, have some breakfast, and then wash an Arnold, usually in the sink unless I had a whole load of clothes to do. Then I'd take my morning dog walk, eat lunch, and take the afternoon dog walk, this time with my Gatorwine or Gatorbooze. Then after dinner and a little bit of the tube, the frogs would bark me to sleep. I was thinking this setup was pretty sweet.

I was glad to have a routine. If you don't have something interesting in life, you need a routine. It substitutes nicely. Right before the dog walking, I had thought about taking up smoking so I could have a routine. Imagine a really addicted smoker guy. No matter what he does throughout the day, he has to stop to go smoke every thirty minutes. So he's sitting around thinking about how much life sucks, and after a while he says "time for a cig!" so he puts all that on hold and puffs away. Then he says "hmm...what was I thinking about? Oh yeah, life sucks." He's got emotional hills and valleys. But me, I wondered if I would be a good smoker. You can't just take it up like that. If you don't have the will power to start with a pack a day, you have to ease into it slowly. Maybe try the nicotine gum, and then do a couple of cigarettes a day and work up from there. I didn't have time for all that.

6

Over the next couple of weeks, things started to get pretty blurry. My consumption of booze increased a lot because I was feeling frustrated about having been dumped and I didn't know how to deal with it. I kept up the routine as best I could, but now I was getting an occasional surprise.

One evening Mrs. Oldhag came over and knocked at my door.

"Hey baby, nice to see your old bones," I said. I was thinking she'd like this because she was old and crusty and probably never got called baby anymore.

"Mr. Herisson," she said, "I was totally against the recommendation of your services, but took pity on your current state when it was explained to me, by the only neighbor who appears to care about your feelings, that you were currently 'down and out'."

"Thank you, Mrs..." I stopped myself from saying Oldhag, which is what I called all the oldster women in the neighborhood.

"But I must now inform you that you are never to walk my dog again. I've come here to pay you what I owe you and end our agreement. Mrs. Jurgensmeyer will doubtless be over to do the same." She took a couple of bills out of her designer purse and held them toward me. I took them with a smile.

"Thanks Mrs. Oldhag," I said. Oops. She puckered up her lips and squinted when she heard that. "Hey, wait a minute. Why can't I walk your dog anymore?"

"Twice this week I have had to retrieve Mr. Noodler from the Jurgensmeyer's house when I returned in the evening. Grey, Mrs. Jurgensmeyer's weimaraner, destroyed several articles of clothing and chewed on various pieces of furniture in my house, where you misplaced him."

"Look, I'm sorry, but it won't happen again. Those two weimaraners look a lot alike. I'll start looking at their tags before I bring them back so I won't mix them up," I said.

"My Mr. Noodler is a dachshund, Mr. Herisson."

So I guessed that had settled it. I went and got her the key to her place, and she left.

I had Mrs. Jurgensmeyer's key ready for her when she arrived. I just handed it to her without saying anything, and even though I must have looked all pathetic, she didn't care.

"Mr. Herisson," she said. "My nephew Franky will be walking the dogs from now on. You may give me all the keys, except for Tim's. He alone has decided to remain your client."

"Okay, look, I messed up this week. Your dog chewed on some stuff, and that's not cool. But I won't do it again."

"You have long been aware of our collective feelings about your residence. You have done nothing, even after our insistence, to beautify your home. As a result, the value of all of our homes on this street has decreased substantially. Did you think we were going to continue to pay you to make your home even less desirable by leaving dog excrement all over your lawn for weeks at a time?"

"I picked all that up. That's not fair!" I said.

"You've picked it up only one time in over three weeks. I'm not here to argue with you. It is, after all, my dog and my choice. The keys, please."

I handed her the keys. I gave her Tim's key as well.

"He can walk Buster, too. One dog isn't worth my time."

"Good evening, Mr. Herisson," she said in a way that made me understand she didn't think I deserved to be called mister.

7

One afternoon I was looking for something to watch on TV when the doorbell rang. I looked over and could see the shadow of someone through the window. I had no idea who this could be, and I didn't really want to talk to anyone. Also, I wasn't wearing shoes and I was thinking that to cross through my living room I was going to have to step on a lot of trash. But at the same time, I had a real mystery here. Who was going to ring my doorbell at this time of the day? Everybody was supposed to be at work. I stood up, and, instead of lifting my feet to walk, I just slid them forward. I made a path through the cans, bottles and pizza boxes all the way over there. Then I patted down my crazy hair and unlocked the door.

"Who the hell is it," I said as I opened the door. I like to keep the upper hand on these kinds of surprises, so I always act all pissed off as if I don't want to be disturbed because I'm in the middle of some important crap. But then I had this dude in front of me who was throwing off my tough-guy act with his bizarreness.

The first thing he made me think of was a giant pear with skinny legs. His belly was a little smaller than mine, but me, I'm all round and compact, and this guy was jiggly. He had girly-looking arms sticking out of his sleeveless, Motorhead T-shirt. And then that head. His mouth was tiny with thin little lips. He had bulging fish eyes. There was too much room between his lower lip and the bottom of his chin. He had a pointy little nose, was wearing a real feather earring, and had a narrow forehead. He had a receding hair line that he couldn't disguise even though he combed his wispy hair straight down. He kept it short all over except for the back, where it fell down to his shoulders. He had on a pair of jeans, the acid-washed kind from the 80's. And on the smallest feet I'd ever seen on a man were black cowboy boots made out of some kind of lizard.

"Hello!" he said, but he didn't say the "H." It sounded like "L.O.," the way he said it.

I was still taking all that in when he held up a big pile of my mail.

"What are you doing with my mail?" I asked. I was going to snatch it angrily out of his hand, but being all lit up, I missed the envelopes completely with my first swipe. The second time I tried to grab them, he moved them into the path of my hand to be nice. I didn't manage to close my fingers around the envelopes when I made contact, so I sent the mail flying all over the place. He bent over and started picking everything up and at the same time showed me way too much hairy ass crack. I had to look away from that. When he stood up and handed the letters to me again, I took them slowly because I didn't want to have to go through all that a second time.

"Thanks," I said.

His lips started puckering and quivering. They reminded me of an old truck motor trying to turn over. Then he said, "Yes," and smiled weird.

"Yes what?" I said. He moved his eyes to the right, then up a little, then over to the left, like he was looking for something.

"No! No! Welcome! I forget, yes, I want to say 'welcome'," he said all happy with himself.

"You're welcome?" I asked.

"Yes!" he said. Then he pointed to my mailbox and said, "It falled on ground."

I was thinking I had me another gifted neighbor. I waited a couple of seconds to see if he had something else to say. He shifted from one foot to the other and was still looking smiley.

"I guess that'll do it," I said and started to close the door.

"Ah! Buh...I am coming for ze room. Ze room eez still 'ere?"

"What?" I asked. I had no idea what this dude was talking about.

"Ze room, for renting," he said.

"I don't got no room for rent, pal."

"Ah, I am doing a meestake?" He took out a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. "It eez not 'ere?" He handed me the piece of paper.

I read it over. It was from a posting on an internet apartment site. Here's what it said: "Bedroom for rent. My woman ran out on me, so I want to rent my spare room so I can sponge off you. I live north of Wilshire. I don't want no weirdos living with me. You do the housework. Maybe you cook stuff for me, too. Don't even think about going in the living room, because I like to let it all hang out in there. No doing anywhere."

"That doesn't sound like me at all! Get out of here, mulleted schmoo!" I yelled. He didn't understand what I was saying. He reached down into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills and handed it to me.

"Take good quantity. I move in today?"

He did have a way with words, this guy. And how bad could it be to have a roommate? I was running out of money and this would help a lot. I counted out what would have been twice my mortgage, if I had actually had one, and handed the rest back.

"You, uh, aren't from someplace weird, are you?" I asked.

"I yam from French."

"Hmm...If I decide that's weird later, I'll kick you out without any notice. Okay?"

"Yes!" he said.

"Come have a look at the room."

We made our way along the trail I'd just cut through the carpet trash, but at about half way, I had to veer off to the right and start shuffling my feet again to get to the spare room. I opened the door and we went in. Everything was still perfect and clean.

"My woman cleaned the place up...before she left me," I said, and I must have been all teary when it came out, because this big frog looked at me like he wanted to hold my hand or something.

"She give love a bad name?" he said, but without hesitating or fishing around for words like before. That was exactly how I felt, and I was thinking this guy was a lot smarter than I had thought. Maybe he couldn't say shit unless it was really important, and then he knew exactly what to say.

"Yeah, yeah man! That's right!" I said, feeling better. "So what do you think of the room?"

"Room...eez beautifool."

"All right then. You can go get your things and move in. But hey, what's your name?"

"My name eez Tommy," he said. "Like Tommy Lee from Motley Crue."

"Okay, Tommy. I'm Lonnie. Remember this: don't ever give your money to anyone in L.A. before you get the goods. Most people here aren't as nice as me. They'll steal from you, okay?"

"Yes," he answered, but I didn't think any of that had reached the mother ship. "Oh! A minute!" he said. "I can take the boos 'ere? I am computair student. I go to university."

"Yeah, hell, I 'take the booze' all the time." He looked really happy with that, and I was thinking I might get along with this guy after all. He took off to go get his stuff, and I returned to the TV.

I had forgotten to give Tommy a key, so I had to sit around waiting for him to get back. Not that I would have gone anywhere anyway. I mean, I hadn't left the house in forever. But now I didn't have a choice, and that pissed me off. I pulled out the wad of bills and counted them again to calm me down. This was going to be just as good as dog walking. And then it hit me: if I could find another dog-walking gig, plus keep Tommy paying rent, I'd have real money, like people with real jobs, and maybe I could shape up a little and give Helen something to miss.

Tommy came back an hour or two later with a suitcase and an electric guitar. I didn't like where this was going at all.

"Hey, you should've told me you had one of those," I said, pointing to the guitar. "If you're going to play all the time and make noise—"

"I am playing," he said, and took the guitar out of the case. It was a flying V. He sat down with it on the couch and wiggled his fingers like he was getting them loose. Then he took a long time to put his fingers in the right places and strummed the guitar once.

"Do majeur," he said. I realized I had nothing to worry about. At that rate, he wouldn't know a song for at least a couple of years.

"That's great Tommy. Hey look, I'm heading out for a while. You can have a beer if you want."

"Eet don't get bettair zan zees," he said.

8

I left the house and headed over to the Third Street Promenade. I went in the Barnes & Noble, which was normally a place I hated because I got the feeling that everyone there knew I didn't read stuff, so they were all suspicious of my presence, as if I was only there to walk by girls who were sitting on the floor reading so I could look down their shirts, or to stand near the escalators so I could watch girls go up to the yoga section on the next level. This time, though, I had money, so I went over to the Starbucks part of the bookstore. I'd never understood why people were so crazy to pay a ton of money for stupid coffee, so I'd never ordered from Starbucks in my life. I had no intention of actually drinking anything, but I ordered a big latte so that I could carry it around and blend in like reading people. I took my coffee and wandered up and down the nutrition, diet and exercise aisles, and then went over to check out the clearance books by the escalator.

Then I went back to the Starbucks, because that's why I'd come in the first place. There was a cork board with ads on the wall by the john. Most of the time it was just full of stupid ads for student films. That didn't pay a dime. They actually wanted you to work for free, and in L.A., there was always someone willing. I gave the whole board a once-over. Lots of nanny jobs, lots of apartments to sublet, a few cars for sale, let me see...then, whack, I found it: "house sitter/dog walker wanted". None of the little tabs with the phone number written on them had been pulled off. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then I ripped the whole ad down and took off.

On the way back, I dialed the number on my shit phone. I got a machine.

"You've reached the office of D. Bates, private investigator. I'm in the field, so don't expect me to get back with you anytime soon. Leave a message," said the dark, gravelly voice. Then the beep. I hate talking to these machines. I always freeze up.

"Hello. This is the guy...well, a guy, who took down your ad and then called the number. I was wanting to know more about the ad, which I called about just now. If you could give me a call back, I would be much condolenced. Thank you," I said, and left the digits. That was a pretty polite message, I thought. I'd let a guy like that into my house.

I called my home number hoping Tommy would pick up. I wanted to bring him back some burgers to celebrate his first night at my place. The phone rang a million times before he answered.

"Allo," he said.

"Hey, it's me. You want some burgers?" I asked.

"Uh...sorry. Zis eez not my 'ouse," he said.

"I know this ain't your 'ouse', dork—it's my house. I'll be back in a little while. Look, listen to this: Don't eat anything 'cause I'm bringing burgers back tonight, on me." Then I heard my kitchen drawers opening and shutting and a bunch of words I didn't understand. "Hey, you got that?"

"Okay, yes," he said, so I hung up and swung by In 'n Out.

When I walked in with the burgers, Tommy got up and came over. He handed me a piece of paper. It was a phone message.

"L.O.," he said.

I looked at the note. It said: Donate anything. Cousin ringing burglars, pack tonight, ennui. After that, he'd written the date and the time. I couldn't read either one of them because his ones and sevens looked all weird.

"Thanks Tommy."

I showed him the sack—I mean the burger sack—and gestured for him to come eat on the couch with me. "Let's chow down," I said. He seemed to like the food a lot, but I couldn't understand anything he said because when he had food in his mouth he was even harder to understand than normal. I finished everything and was about to throw the wrappers on the floor when I noticed that the carpet trash was gone. This guy had picked up everything while I was out. I couldn't believe it.

"That was really nice of you, picking that trash up," I said and pointed at the floor so he'd know what I meant.

"You are welcome."

9

The next day I was getting blitzed by the dinosaur fountain on the Promenade when my phone rang. It about gave me a heart attack because I hadn't gotten a phone call for a long time.

"Lonnie here."

"Ah, yes. Are you the individual who called me yesterday?" said the voice. At first I thought it was a deep-voiced woman, but no woman speaks that low.

"Are you that private dick's wife?" I asked.

"Oh nooooo! I am the investigator. I was the investigator, anyway. I'm giving all that up now." I noticed that sometimes when he spoke he sounded like his answering machine, as if his voice lost that womanish quality and went back to being steroidy once every five words.

"So you're mister Bates?"

"Call me Dennis," he said.

"All right. So are you still looking for a house sitter, Dennis?"

"Absolutely! And you're the only one who has called. Why don't you come over and I'll explain my situation?"

He gave me his address. He lived on Second Street, not far at all from my place. I started in that direction, but then I thought I'd better trash my Gatorbooze first and get something respectable to carry around so that I'd make a good first impression. I hit the Starbucks inside the Barnes & Noble again and then took off north toward Dennis' place with a steamy latte. Even though I didn't take as much as one sip of it, I enjoyed how warm my hands felt carrying it around.

His house was amazing. It was a white, Spanish-style house that had a courtyard surrounded by a wall of shrubbery. When I see those kinds of houses, I always imagine stomping around on the roof breaking all those fancy red clay tiles. There were three cars in the driveway. One looked like mine—a real piece of shit. But the two others were byoots: a green Mercedes convertible and a black Dodge Charger. Underneath the doorbell was written Dennis Bates. I rang it.

He opened the gate to the courtyard. He looked like a bruiser, a real tough guy, except that he was wearing thin, white linen pants. I could see his neon-purple unit sling through them. He had a white tank top on and around his neck he had a tiny purple scarf, I guess to go along with the underwear. He was one of those guys who can shave in the morning and have a five o'clock shadow by lunch. He had black hair and was furry like a gorilla. His skin was tan and looked oily. I guessed that was because of tanning lotion, because he had a lawn chair with a beach towel on it there in the courtyard. Some kind of enormous black poodle was at his feet having a sniff at me.

"Hello to you," he said. He looked at my Arnold and then followed the treasure trail with his eyes. That's what I call the strip of hair leading from my belly button down south. Helen used to make fun of me and say it was more like a treasure hunt.

"Hi. I'm the gay that called you. Guy. Guy, I mean, who called about the house sitting." I felt pretty stupid right about then, but he was a good sport about it.

"You think I went too far?" He pointed up and down at his outfit. "I'm trying out some new looks, but I don't know if I pulled this one off right."

I didn't really know what he wanted me to say here.

"Well, I can see your package, pretty much," I said.

"Of course you can. But what I mean is do I look too 'nouveau gay'?"

I was thinking right then that my cup of Starbucks wasn't going to be the skeleton key I had hoped it would. I was going to have to say stuff.

"I don't know too much about this sort of thing, but when you opened the gate, I was thinking you were trying too hard," I said, worried that I'd piss him off and not get the job.

"Hmm...Why don't you come in and sit down. It's so refreshing talking to someone who will tell me his honest opinion."

I walked into the courtyard. As he was shutting the gate, the big poodle made a run for it.

"Stay! You're going to get yourself run over!" he yelled, sounding like the voice on his answering machine. "I just got this dog. He's almost full grown, but I don't think anyone has ever trained him," he said, switching back to the deep chick voice.

We walked over to the front door and went in. His house wasn't very well decorated. I liked it a lot, but I thought that a guy who was like this guy would decorate different. He had some black-and-white photos of far-west landscapes on the walls. He didn't have a lot of furniture, but what he did have looked like it came out of a bachelor pad: black leather sofa and love seat, wood coffee table, kick-ass entertainment center, a collection of nature magazines—that kind of stuff. He invited me to sit down on the couch.

"Would you like a beer?" he asked.

"That'd be great."

He went into the kitchen. I reached over and picked up a hunting magazine from the coffee table. And then I realized what was up. This guy must have been pretending to be gay for some kind of mission. Maybe some wife thinks her husband is cheating on her with a man, and Dennis here is gonna get naked with him and then, right before the doing, whip out a camera and spring the divorce papers on him.

He came back with a couple of Buds. That did it—now I was sure.

"Are you on a secret-agent thing, where you gotta pretend to be gay?" I asked. "Your phone message said you were 'in the field'. Is this your undercover persona?"

He looked kind of sad all of a sudden. He sat down on the love seat, took a big swig of beer and stared up at the ceiling. Then he started talking in his answering-machine voice and never went back to the other one.

"Nah, I quit the business a few months ago. But I did something like what you described, except I didn't have to disguise myself. A client hired me to follow and take pictures of her husband because she believed he was hiding his homosexuality. I started following him around—I have the three very different cars you saw outside so that I don't get caught when I tail someone. I found inconspicuous places to park around the various restaurants and offices he visited every week. In order to be sure I'd get good shots, I started taking establishing photos of him alone. I printed them out and almost immediately had a strange reaction to the photos. I thought I was having déjà vu, so I looked over the photos again and again to find what it was. And then I simply had to admit to myself that I was staring at this man's face, dreaming about him."

"So you didn't want to piss off your client by doing her husband?"

"No," he said, "it's not that. Understand that before that time, I had always believed myself to be straight. I had held all of it inside, and it was eating me up."

"It's good you came out then," I said. "Did you catch that guy in the act?"

"Almost immediately. He had several lovers all over L.A. He even had an apartment in West Hollywood that he had kept hidden from his wife. One of his lovers lived there. Oh, clever Ignacio—that's the husband's name. He's half Spanish."

"I'd of kicked his balls in if I was his wife. Did she go crazy all over him?" I asked.

"Well...She never found out. I approached Ignacio one day with some of the more candid photos I had taken and showed them to him. I opened up and explained who I was, but told him I could no longer go through with it because I was having...feelings. He seemed to understand what I was talking about. It must have been written all over my face. He invited me to dinner to talk it over. It seems like a cliché, but he's the only one who really understood where I was coming from. After a little while he broke it off with all the others. We've been together ever since."

"What happened to the wife?"

"Oh, she still doesn't have a clue. I showed her a bunch of photos of him exiting buildings all by himself and told her he was just a busy businessman."

"Why is he staying with her?" I asked.

"Her father is very wealthy and is about to pass on. When he does..." he said and then stopped. He seemed to realize he was telling me too much. "Well, let's just say that Ignacio and I will be together then."

"Damn. You were a detective guy, and one day all that changed," I said.

"The thing is, I don't know how to be like Ignacio wants me to be. Look at me in this outfit. Sometimes I don't know why I can't just throw on my old clothes, except now that I've lost so much weight they don't fit me anymore. I think I was overeating before out of anxiety. I used to be as fat as...well, I was closer to your size. Ignacio helped me start exercising because he doesn't like heavy men. He also said I needed to update my wardrobe to reflect my new life, but this just isn't comfortable."

"I'd get rid of the scarf thing. That makes it look like you're trying too hard," I said.

He took it off. He looked much better. And out of the sunlight, I couldn't see much of that other business either.

"What kind of dog is that?" I asked. It was standing outside drooling all over the sliding-glass door.

"It's a royal standard poodle. A gift from Ignacio. He's about eight months old, so he requires a lot of attention. I can't leave him alone, and he's a bitch to travel with."

Dennis got up and let the beast in. I always thought poodles were boring, but this huge thing ran around like he was nuts. He jumped up on the couch, stepped all over my balls and licked my face. Dennis came over and put him on the floor, but he jumped back up immediately.

"Sorry," he said.

"No problem. At least I know he likes me. What's his name?"

"Manolete."

There was no way I was going to call this dog Manolete. It didn't look like a Manolete at all—not that I knew what one of those looked like. It looked more like a big hairy scrotum, with all that tight curly hair done up in circles. I decided to call it Ballsack, at least after this Dennis guy took off.

"So what do you need me for?" I asked.

"I'm going to be away for several months. I don't know exactly how long. With all the stress from these changes, I need to get away for a while. Ignacio does a lot of business in Spain, so he suggested that I take up temporary residence in his apartment in Ibiza. He's arranged his schedule so that he'll be with me there a couple of weeks every month. While I'm gone, I need you to take care of my house. Come by in the evenings and turn one light on somewhere so that it looks like I'm home. The difficult part will be Manolete. I'm not sure how he'll do on his own. Plus, he'll need to be taken out three times a day, at least once for exercise, or else I'm worried he'll destroy my place. The ideal situation would be for you to take him with you most of the time—assuming you're a dog person?"

"Oh yeah. I'm great with dogs. They think I'm one of them."

"I get that impression," he said. "You can even hang out here if you want. Watch a movie, relax in the yard, whatever. That'll really make it look like someone is at home. Plus, every couple of weeks I'll need you to start up my cars and let them idle for a few minutes. Will all that fit into your schedule?"

"Oh yeah," I said. "I live less than two miles from here, plus I have a lot more time now that I've become a landlord. My job does itself." I was hoping that last part didn't sound as pervy to him as it did to me.

"Great. I'll get your contact information so I can check in with you from Spain."

He gave me a piece of paper and I wrote down my phone number.

"So, how much were you thinking?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. Sorry. I'll send you a check every month for..." and here he told me an amount about as much as Tommy was paying me for rent. "Is that okay?"

"That works."

He started taking me on a tour of the house. He showed me where he kept all the food and products for Ballsack. I didn't understand why the dog had so much stuff, but I nodded a lot like everything was cool. He pointed to a toothbrush and explained something I didn't pay attention to. I'd never brushed dog teeth in my life and I wasn't going to start now. But I knew dogs were supposed to have dog shampoo, and I didn't see any here.

"What kind of shampoo do I use on the dog?" I asked.

"I have an account at Pet Co. You'll have to take him there for grooming."

I guessed he was lazy or something, but me, I wouldn't mind washing and combing him myself. Like that, he wouldn't shed all over my couch when I brought him home.

He told me I'd be starting next week. I zoned out through the rest of what he said. I followed him silently around the house as he pointed to stuff and explained things. I think he realized I wasn't paying attention anymore, because he started nodding yes and pointing to some places and then shook his head no and pointed to others. One of the places he shook no to was his bedroom. The other was the basement. Okay, I understood. Don't go in those places.

All this being social was zapping the energy out of me.

"All right Dennis. Thanks again for letting me take care of your stuff. I've got to run and look after one of my renters now. We'll be in touch. And you," I said, giving that crazy giant poodle's afro a tussle, "see you next week."

"I'll leave you some instructions and contact numbers on the coffee table," he said.

Dennis and I shook hands. He gave me a set of keys and then I was off.

10

When I got back to my place, I went straight to my bedroom. I felt like taking a nap, and since I had no pressure about my immediate financial future, I figured I'd fall asleep fast. I took off my clothes and was giving myself a good scratching when my hand arrived near my belly button. I reached into it, plucked out a little wad of lint and looked at it. This stuff was strange because it was bluish. I hadn't been wearing anything but Arnold shirts for some time, and they were white. How did this blue lint get into my belly button? I had a real enigma here, and even after turning on the frog barking and crawling into bed, thinking about it was preventing me from sleeping.

I got up and put my clothes back on. I went and plopped down on the living-room couch, and while I was drinking a beer in front of the tube, I got an idea. That Tommy was also big and fat, so sooner or later his belly would peek out from under his shirt like mine did. Then I could either reach in stealthily and grab his lint, or, if he had a shallow navel, I could just take a look. If his lint was blue also, I'd let the whole thing slide. I mean, maybe all the stuff that migrates into the belly hole is blue. Maybe only the blue stuff is mobile, you know, and the rest of the colors just fall off onto the floor. There had to be a law governing lint movement.

11

I got a great idea that week. I decided that I was going to drag my pops up to hang out in that guy Dennis' house. That would give my dad a little vacation and let me know how he was doing at the same time. Plus, I wouldn't have to make the house look lived in, because my dad would be living in it. That'd let me continue doing as little as possible. I wasn't sure he was going to go for it though. He liked being down in Venice. But as the rest of the week went by, I came up with the perfect plan. It was a little expensive—I had to go buy a laptop and a bunch of blocks of chocolate—but I was sure it'd work.

The day Dennis took off for Spain, I went down to Venice to get my dad. I found him making a half-Obama, half-dragon sand sculpture.

"Hi Dad," I said. He normally didn't answer very much. "Wow, that's a nice Obama."

"Obamadragon," he said.

It seemed like everybody had something "Obama" to sell in Venice. His face was everywhere. I even saw a wooden Obama pipe. He was lying on his back, and you put your weed in his open mouth and sucked on his feet after it was lit. All that patriotism was really something.

"Come with me, Dad. You're going on vacation."

"Obamadragon..." he said. I could see he was confused about what to do with it.

"People will love it even if you're not here," I said. He kept working away, so I thought of something else. "Check this out." I took out fifty bucks, which was a lot more than he would have gotten for a sculpture with no tits on it. "I want to buy your Obamadragon today—just me, like a private art-collector guy. See, here's the dough. It's all mine." I gave him the cash and he was really happy.

"No one else can look now," he said.

"No, that's okay. I'm donating it to the public because I want to help out with these savages' education." That did the trick. He got up and walked back to the car with me.

On the way up to Santa Monica, I noticed he was stinking something fierce. I had always assumed that homeless people jumped in the ocean from time to time, but apparently that was not true. I took him back to my place and had him take a shower. I knew he wouldn't use any soap unless I made him, so I poured some shampoo on him before he got in and told him he had to rub it all off. That worked out pretty well. I threw his clothes away because if I had washed them, I think they'd have fallen apart. I gave him a pair of sweat pants, and even though he was half my size, he pulled the draw string tight and it worked out okay. I had lots of shirts and other stuff to give him, and it made me so happy to see him shaping up that I took him out to get a haircut and a shave as well.

After a little lunch I loaded my supplies into the car, and then we swung over to Dennis' place. Ballsack was waiting in the courtyard, and he was super happy to see me again. He wouldn't stop spinning around in circles until he hit his head on a lawn chair.

Now I was going to spring my good idea on my dad. I sat him down on the couch.

"Okay pops, here's the deal. I got this place for a while, and I want you to stay in it. That way we can start hanging out more. It's a good idea, because it's almost October, and who knows what the weather will be like soon."

He looked kind of nervous. I had anticipated this, so I took out my first idea: the laptop. He looked at me curiously as I unwrapped it and set it up. Once I got on Dennis' internet connection, I went onto a chess website and signed into an account I had created earlier. The user name was Shelton. That's my dad's name.

"You're going to love this. I knew you'd be nervous about missing all the chess games, so I got this thing set up perfect with your name and everything. When someone comes along and wants to play against you, you'll hear a little ding. Then you just click on 'accept' and start playing. That's all you have to do." Then I took out a brown paper bag that I'd put a lot of one-dollar bills in. "If you win, you take one of these dollars from the bag and you keep it. If you lose, you put one back."

I moved the mouse around on the coffee table so he could see how it worked. He didn't do anything at first, but I knew he was interested because he didn't look worried anymore.

"Also, I want to order some sculptures, but I don't want any more sand ones," I said. I took several two-pound blocks of chocolate out of my shopping bag and showed him. "I want some chocolate sculptures of cool stuff—anything you see going on here at the house. You need to stay here because you can't sculpt house stuff for me if you're away at the beach, right?" I could see he agreed with this. "Everything you need to sculpt with is in the kitchen. Just stick them in the fridge when you're done so they don't melt."

I showed him around the house a little, which got me thinking about the places Dennis told me I wasn't supposed to go. I took dad back to the couch and set him up with a game. Then I went up to Dennis' room.

Nothing looked too weird at first. He must have packed up his gay clothes for Spain because his dresser was basically empty. But when I opened up his closet, I got a surprise. He had left all his private eye clothes in there, and he hadn't been exaggerating earlier when he had said that he used to be around my size. I tried on a few of the jackets, and while posing in front of the mirror, I imagined myself talking to some chick in a smoky detective office. Of course this was L.A., so the smoky office would probably be more like a small table at a vegetarian restaurant in the middle of a mall.

There were boxes of stuff also. I was wondering if there was more detective stuff in them. There had to be more to this business than having dark, manly clothes. I decided to come check it out later when I had more time. I had to run an errand now.

I went downstairs to see how pops was doing, and everything was working well. He didn't pay any attention to me because he was already into a game. This was going to keep him busy for hours.

"Okay Dad, I'm taking the big hairy Ballsack out for a walk—I mean the dog. I'll bring some food by later."

12

I hadn't been able to get Helen out of my mind. I missed her a lot and I wanted to find out if there was any chance she'd talk to me again.

I started walking over to my beat-up, rusty compact, but Ballsack pulled me toward Dennis' cars. This dog had a good idea, and hey, wasn't I supposed to start the motors up every once in a while? I could drive them around and that would be even better. It'd be like Dennis had never stopped driving them. They'd stay perfect that way. I ran back in and picked up the keys to the Charger. The dog jumped in the front seat. I rolled down the window a little for him, and he immediately started drooling on the passenger-side door. I started the car. The motor was like a rolling earthquake. It sent vibrations all through my legs. I took a good look at myself in the rear-view mirror. No matter what you look like, you look pretty good in a car like this, even if you've got a big poodle next to you.

I sped off down the street. The Charger was so fast that I had to get used to barely touching the accelerator. The car kept lurching forward, sending Ballsack flying all over the place. But once I got out of the neighborhood, it went smoother.

Helen would be at work now that the school year had just started back up. She taught science at a high school in Westwood. That was probably why she had always managed to put up with me—after a day full of those high-school monkeys, I was no problem.

I parked the car in a visitor spot and left the windows rolled down for the dog. He barked at me a few times while I was heading inside. I pointed to my watch and held up five fingers, which was kind of stupid because the dog didn't know what I was talking about. He may have thought I was saying something like "lick your paw five times." It made him be quiet though, so I figured I had at least confused him long enough to keep him happy.

I arrived at the office and walked up to the desk. The secretary, a large woman who had apparently discovered how to make dresses from picnic tablecloths, was chatting with a female colleague. Even though she saw me come in, she continued her conversation.

"And then in the last part, Mike buys the ring and is just waiting for the perfect time to give it to her. He puts it in a glass of wine, but Jill just doesn't want anything to drink that night so she never sees it," she said.

"Hmm, err, heugh," I groaned. But she didn't look up at me. She was holding an envelope in one hand and a folded letter in the other. Every time she paused, the letter would come closer to going in the envelope, but when she started speaking again, her hand would move away from it.

"And then he gets down on one knee in the kitchen right behind the open fridge door. She has her head in the fridge looking for some milk. So all we're waiting for is for her to close the door so she can see him kneeling there waiting to pop the question. But guess what happens?"

"What?" asked the other woman, who wasn't working either.

"She drops the milk and it spills all over, so they just clean it up and he has to try again later."

"Oh lord," said the woman.

Now there was a little bit of silence. The secretary almost had the letter in the envelope, and to be honest, I'd almost forgotten why I was there because by that point I just wanted her to get that letter into the envelope.

"And then there's the best part," she said, and out came the letter again. "He makes some Jell-O and puts the ring in it."

"In Jell-O?" asked the other woman.

"Yes. It's Jill's favorite dessert. He's sure this time that he's found the right way to do it," she said.

"Great. She sees the ring and gets all happy and blah blah," I said. "Could you put that letter into the envelope please?"

The woman turned toward me. She looked offended.

"She did not see the ring. Did you even see this movie?"

"Of course I did. They do it at the end," I said, which always works no matter what story you're talking about.

"Oh," she said. "Well, you forgot about this part."

"Well, go on," said the other woman.

"Mike gives Jill the wrong square of Jell-O, and with all that jiggling around and the light shining off the Jell-O, he doesn't notice the mistake until he feels the ring sliding down his throat!"

"Oh lord that Mike!" said the other woman.

"Yes! Can you believe that? He has to go out and buy an all new ring."

"I'd have just fished the old one out of the toilet," I said. Both the women stopped smiling and looked at me. The secretary put the letter in the envelope.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm here to see Helen Aldridge," I said.

"She's on leave this year. Have you tried to call her?"

"Well, I was hoping to surprise her," I said. I figured these ladies liked surprises, so maybe they'd be nicer if they thought I was a romantic guy. "I've got a surprise present I want to give her."

"Oh," said the two ladies at the same time.

"She could really use a present," said the other lady. "I hear she needs some cheering up."

"Well, she changed her address recently. She left it with us. Let me see...Here it is," said the secretary. She wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I recognized it immediately. It was Helen's sister's place.

"Did she have an accident or something?" I asked.

"No, thank the lord. She's under the weather," said the other woman. "But you didn't hear it from us."

"Thanks a lot," I said and left.

The dog was ecstatic to see me when I got back to the car. In his dog brain, it must have seemed like I had been gone for hours. I noticed he had been licking his side of the windshield to pass the time. It was slimed up so much that I had problems seeing out of it.

Helen's sister lived out east, near Griffith Park. At that time of day with the traffic, I wouldn't have made it out there until her family was back from work. I needed to talk to her alone, I thought. In fact I didn't really know what I wanted to say, so I needed to think of something first before I went tooling over there.

13

I drove back to Dennis' place and got in my own car with the dog. What a difference. Now I realized everything that was wrong with it. I had to fight the steering wheel to keep it going in a straight line, and the brakes only worked after I gave them a serious mashing. I didn't think I could go back to it now that I'd been in a real car.

I drove to my place and parked. Tommy was inside looking up words in his dictionary. This guy was amazing—he had time to study and to clean my place up spotless. I'd always heard about people exploiting foreigners, but I'd never known exactly what I was missing until now.

"L.O.," he said. He looked at the dog and I could tell he was worried about the extra cleaning he'd have to do.

"Hey Tommy. You want a car to drive around?" I threw my keys toward him. They hit his fat belly and fell to the floor. I guess French people can't catch things with their hands because they're more into soccer. If I'd have thrown the keys near his feet, maybe he'd of done some cool soccer shit with them.

"Car?" he asked. Well, I imagined that was a question. He smiled big, so I figured that made up for the dog.

"Yeah, you can use it all you want. You know how to drive?"

"Yes! I 'ave pairmee," he said, whatever the hell that meant. "But I can't drive 55! uh...because...uh...I'm on a 'eyeway to 'ell!" he said and picked up the keys.

"All right Speedy Frogzales, just don't get too many tickets." It really was amazing how fast he was learning English.

Ballsack and I took off on foot to buy something to eat for my dad and me. On the way out of the neighborhood I saw one of the Mrs. Oldhags. I waved and yelled over "do you like my new dog? He was a little expensive, but hey, I'm worth it, right?" Being Dennis for a day had been great. I was thinking I could get used to it.

We made it back to Dennis' place with burgers and sodas. I gave the big poodle a bowl of crunchy dog food and left him in the courtyard. My dad was still staring at the computer screen. It didn't look like he had moved an inch since I left.

"Hey Dad, you went to the bathroom while I was gone, right?" I could see from the way he glanced over at me that he was about to explode. I walked over to the computer and pointed at the chess clock on the screen. "Look here—you've got 15 minutes to make each move. You can get up and go do something else. As long as you make one move every fifteen minutes, you're good." He stood up and ran into the bathroom. When he came out, he looked much better.

"Here's something to eat." He sat down with me on the couch and scarfed down the burgers and fries. I really liked seeing my dad happy like that. Maybe the only reason he liked to live in Venice was because he didn't realize he could play chess all day inside. I'd have to give him some time to see.

After we finished eating, I let the dog in and turned on the TV. I wanted to wait around long enough to show my dad that he didn't have to accept another game immediately. It took another four hours for him to finish that game. He won, so he took a dollar out of the bag.

"Okay. Now watch this. When you finish the game and you want to relax, you close the laptop like this. When you want to play again, you open it like this, and it'll be ready. So now we want to close it so we can sleep."

I got a couple of blankets from the closet and made him a place to sleep on the couch. I could see he was a little freaked out by the idea of sleeping in a new place.

"I'll leave my number by the phone. If you need anything, just call it. You don't have to say anything. I'll just come right over."

I took the dog with me so he wouldn't bother my dad. We went back to my place and got ready for bed. I let Ballsack sleep near my feet, but at first he went crazy looking for frogs. He thought they were real, but after listening to them for thirty minutes or so, he gave up and dozed off.

14

The next day I was hanging out with my dad getting wasted when I started thinking about how cool it would be to continue being Dennis for a while. I staggered up the stairs into his room and opened up the closet. I chose some sweet detective clothes—real tough-guy stuff. I took off everything but my Arnold shirt and put on Dennis' clothes. I couldn't wear his shoes, which was too bad because he had some sweet wing tips. Anyway, with all the booze I had drunk that day, I was thinking my flip-flops looked good with the dark leather jacket and khaki cargo pants. I had a kind of fat Indiana-Jones thing going on, but with a black baseball cap instead of a fedora.

I was admiring all this in the mirror when I heard the doorbell ring. I panicked a little and spilled some booze on Dennis' pants, but then I calmed down. No one was going to realize I was wearing Dennis' clothes anyway. Hell, they wouldn't even realize I wasn't Dennis.

I was so lit up that I don't remember getting from Dennis' closet to the courtyard. I swung the gate open. There stood a man who kept weaving left and right. Or maybe that was me.

"Yeah, what the hell is it?" I asked.

The man was wearing a tan, wide-brimmed hat pulled down low. He had on a trench coat. This definitely had to be some secret Dennis stuff.

"I'm looking for...Mr. Bates," whispered the man.

"He's..." I started to say and then stopped, mainly because I had to belch and was trying to hold it back, but also because I began to have an idea. Dennis Bates the private investigator didn't exist anymore, so what harm would it do to give this guy the next best thing? Maybe this would be the opportunity I had been looking for to take a little vacation from my life.

"I mean," I continued, "he's me. How can I help you?"

"You...you're Dennis Bates?"

"Yeah, that's me—the private-investigator guy."

"And you...live here?"

"Yes. When I'm not out in the field," I said. "What do you want?"

The guy looked around behind him for a while, as if he was looking to see if he had been followed. As I watched him, I got the feeling I'd seen this guy before. I couldn't exactly place him though.

"I need to...uh...hire you. You see..." he said and paused again to look around. He looked to be about 60 years old. He had a fine beard with a lot of gray in it. In fact, he looked a lot like that director guy, Spieldburt. "...I have a problem, and no one can know about it because my image is very important to me. It's my lover. I believe she's cheating on me."

"What's her name?" I asked. He squinted as he looked toward the neighbor's lawn. Then he turned toward me and leaned in close.

"Gertie Elliot," he said.

It was like a bomb going off in my head. I knew that name. Those were the names of those kids in E.T. I was sure more than ever that this was that director guy.

"Quick, come in," I said. He stepped into the courtyard, and I shut the gate. "What's your name?" I asked. He hesitated for a long time.

"You can call me Mr. Stevens. I have to keep my real name hidden."

Oh yeah, it was him. He didn't even go very far to think of a fake name.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Well...I want you to follow Gertie Elliot and tell me who she is with. I have to know. Just spend as much time as you can following her. Sit outside her house all night if you have to."

"Where does she live?"

"Uh...I shouldn't have to tell you that. You are a good investigator, aren't you?"

"Of course. No information needed. And where can I find you when I have what you need?" I asked.

"You can never come to me. I'll come to you. Just wait for me. I don't even want you to know my real name in case you get discovered. I'm a happily married man and I don't need my wife knowing that I'm stalking my lover."

"Okay. I'll do it."

"Good. Get started immediately. I'll be out of town for about a week. I'll get in touch with you when I get back."

"Um...this is not going to be free," I said, feeling bold with the booze running through me.

"When you give me the information, I'll give you double your usual fee," he said and left.

I had no idea what my usual fee was. I'd have to ask Dennis somehow. Anyway, I was happy because double is always a good word. But I still had some questions. At least I thought I had some questions. I seemed to have forgotten what they were, so I decided to have another beer while trying to remember them.

When I passed by my dad on the way to the fridge, I saw that he had started his first chocolate sculpture. He was using knives and forks from the kitchen to do it.

"What are you sculpting?" I asked. He pointed to the courtyard.

"Talking people."

"Good idea."

I grabbed a beer and watched him go at it for a while. It was going to take him forever. He was working on a TV tray. He had one chunk of chocolate for me and another for Spieldburt. He had other little chunks spread around for plants or something. An hour went by before he had shapes that looked like humans. I could recognize mine because it was a lot fatter than the other one. He had to stick the tray back in the fridge every now and then to make sure the chocolate wouldn't melt.

Then the important question came back to me. Why did Spieldburt's lover have the same name as the characters in E.T.? Maybe he had named the characters after her. That was weird, especially if he was trying to keep her hidden. It didn't seem too smart to me.

I was going to have to find out more about all this, but I couldn't do it immediately because I wasn't going to be able to drive until I had sobered up.

I did a couple of searches on the internet to get some more information, but "Spieldburt" came up with nothing, and "Gertie Elliot" always led back to an actress who liked to flash people on talk shows. This might not be as easy as I'd thought.

15

The next morning I put on some more of Dennis' clothes, took the dog and jumped into the Mercedes. I stopped by the perfume store on the Promenade and picked up a gift box, and then I drove out to Helen's sister's place. It was a nice neighborhood, not too far from the Griffith Observatory. I knocked on the door, and after a while Helen opened it. She didn't look as clean as I remembered.

"Hi," I said. I knew I couldn't try to win her back immediately—she'd be prepared for that.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, looking at me strangely. I could see she was confused by Ballsack.

"This is my friend's dog. I'm looking after him for a while. Hey, I dropped by to give you this." I held out the box I'd bought from the perfume store. She refused to take it.

"Presents won't change anything," she said. I knew she would say that, and she was right. But that's not why I had bought it. I was just using it as a pretext to drop by.

"This isn't really a present. I bought it for you when we were still together, with your money. I was going to give it to you for Christmas. You may as well have it since you paid for it."

She hesitated for a minute and then took the package. I didn't want to stay around and push my luck, so I started to back away.

"It was good to see you. I gotta go walk this guy. Call me anytime," I said, trying to look calm.

"Thanks," she said and shut the door.

I got into the car. I could see her watching me from the window as I drove away. She must have been wondering why I had a sweet Mercedes now.

16

I picked up tacos and headed over to Dennis' place. My dad was playing chess again, although I knew he had been sculpting also because there were little chocolate shavings all over the coffee table. I wiped those up and we ate lunch.

My dad was doing better, so I decided to ask him to walk the poodle—not because the poodle needed walking, but because I thought it would do him some good to get out and stretch his legs a little.

I went upstairs and opened Dennis' investigator closet. I took out the boxes and started looking through them. He had all sorts of cool stuff. In one box he had a bunch of different sized binoculars and spotting scopes. In another box he had a microphone that looked like it had a little satellite dish behind it. I turned it on and plugged some earphones into it and then aimed it out the window. There was a woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. She was talking on the phone, so I pointed the microphone at her. The sound exploded in my ears and made me half deaf, so I turned the volume down.

"...so I told him that if he wanted to change places with me, he'd see how 'easy' it was to stay home all day," she said. She waited for the other person to finish talking and then continued. "Oh no, you think I was serious? I'm a baby machine now. No way am I going back to cutting hair." She stopped pushing, walked around to the front of the stroller and started to bend over. I rushed over to the box and picked up the spotting scope, as any good man would have done. I took off the lens protectors and aimed it in her direction. I tried to focus the thing, but it wasn't easy. After a minute or two, a clear image of the eye of a lawn flamingo came into view. I lowered the scope and looked out the window, but she was gone.

I decided to practice using all the equipment so that I wouldn't have any difficulty using it on Gertie Elliot once I found her. I got pretty good with the spotting scope, but for anything that wasn't really far away, it wasn't the right choice. Then I took out the binoculars and started scanning the neighborhood. After a while I saw my dad coming down the street. I followed him around as he and the big poodle went from yard to yard. Two houses down, Ballsack pulled my dad over to a real-estate sign and started sniffing away. Then he cocked his leg up and peed all over the agent's picture.

And then I couldn't believe my eyes. I took out the spotting scope and zoomed in on the picture of the real-estate agent. She looked to be around sixty years old. Her red hair was all done up in curls that made her look like she was from the 50's. She had the fakest smile you can imagine, and since I was zoomed in tight on it, I could see that she had yellowish teeth and upper-lip hair that got darker as it moved out to the corners of her mouth. It was one of those poses where the photographer tells you to turn away from the camera with your body, but to look directly at the lens. But the part that was the most interesting to me was written to the left of the picture. I moved my scope slowly from left to right over the words "Gertie Elliot: I just do one thing. And I do it right." Spieldburt's lover was a real-estate agent. I'd probably walked by that sign several times without even realizing it. Following this old broad around was going to be easy. If I ever lost her, all I'd have to do is call the number on one of her signs and schedule a house showing. I could even go to some open houses all disguised up.

I went downstairs and rifled through the kitchen drawers for a telephone book. I got her office address from the real-estate section and decided that the first thing I'd do was grab some binoculars, go to her office and sit around waiting for her. Then I could tail her and find out where she lived.

My dad walked in with the dog, and I told him I was going out for a while. I had no idea when I'd be back, so I told him if I didn't make it back in time for dinner, I'd have a pizza delivered.

17

I jumped in the Charger and started driving over to Gertie's office in Culver City. I was excited because this was going to be my first big stakeout. I imagined a street filled with big trees that I'd park under. I'd be hidden by the shade and glued to my binoculars. People would drive by me, and I'd duck down quick to avoid detection. I'd go over the facts of the case again and again and make notes about everything, and then when I finally caught a glimpse of her, I'd roll into action, following her back to her place.

The address said Gertie Elliot's office was on Overland Avenue. I thought I was in the wrong place at first because when I got there, I found myself in a strip mall. The only trees around were palm trees, and there weren't very many of them, so I just parked outside the Starbucks nearby. That didn't seem too detective-like to me, but there was no shade, so what could I do?

I got out of the car and looked around a bit. On the other side of Overland and a couple of blocks to the south was the entrance to Sony Studios. That made sense. Maybe this Gertie met all sorts of movie types, since she did real estate right next to where they worked. Her office was a few businesses up, sandwiched between a cell-phone place and a fitness club. Otherwise, there was a mattress store and a pharmacy, and behind the strip mall there was a huge electronics store and some fast food joints. I went into the pharmacy, bought some paper and a pen, got back in the car and drew a quick map of everything so I'd be able to show Spieldburt exactly where I put in my hours.

I'd just about finished my map when I saw a meter maid cruising through the parking lot. I hadn't seen any parking meters here, so I wasn't worried, but the chick actually stopped at my car. She tapped on my window.

"Yeah? What is it?" I asked.

"Sir, you're parked in a Berdly Fitness spot. Are you a Berdly customer?"

"No, I am not a 'Berdly customer'," I said, trying to imitate her official tone.

"Well, you're going to have to move your car."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Sir, we tow a lot of cars every month. Your car looks really nice, and I'd hate to see it scratched up by the tow company. They tend to be fairly jealous, so when they see a nice car like this, they aren't very careful."

I couldn't believe it. I wasn't being very nice to this lady, and she was being nice to me because I had a nice car and nice clothes. If I'd have been in my piece-of-junk car wearing my flip-flops and stained shorts, she probably wouldn't even have given me the warning. This was crazy.

"Thanks for letting me know. Sorry I was being rude—I really need some caffeine. Where can I park?"

"Anywhere you don't see a Berdly stop sign painted on the ground. Most of these are 15-minute spots, but over by the electronics store there's unlimited parking."

"Thanks," I said. I started the car up and drove over there. It was all wrong. I couldn't see anything anymore. I grabbed my pen and paper, put the binoculars in my jacket pocket, and walked back over to the strip-mall parking lot.

The first thing I did was pass quickly by Gertie Elliot's door. I didn't even look in. That way if she saw me, she'd think I was just some dude going somewhere in a hurry. That was pretty sneaky, I thought. Then I went by a second time and pretended I was having a conversation on my shit phone, all the while taking pictures through the windows of her office. Then I had to find a place to look at the photos. I couldn't just stand in the parking lot and do that because there was a security guy walking around, and every time he saw some punk in a hooded sweatshirt, he was on top of them telling them not to touch any cars. If I stood around long enough, he'd probably come harass me, too. So I went over to the Starbucks, because if there's one thing I'd learned, it's that nobody ever suspects you of anything as long as you're drinking coffee. I went inside and waited in line.

"Hey, you got anything that someone who normally doesn't come here would like?" I asked the teenager behind the counter.

"Do you mean do we have anything that people who don't like coming here would like? Because if they liked coming here, they'd definitely like something, but if they don't like coming here, it's because they don't like anything here," he said. "And how could we give someone who doesn't like coming here anything other than something he doesn't like?"

This guy was trying to confuse me with some sort of logic. I didn't have time for this crap.

"Here's what I mean smart guy. Can you imagine Magnum P.I. coming in here and ordering something?"

"Yes, I can. We've got lots of customers who wear Hawaiian shirts and drive Ferraris. We get people from Sony Studios in here every day, so I've pretty much seen it all."

"Well, imagine what you would give those guys, and give me one of them. Make it really big."

He went back and fooled around with some gadgets. I thought he was screwing around back there, but it turns out everything he was doing was for my coffee. He came back with a big cup and handed it to me.

"Caramel Macchiato," he said.

I paid the kid and went outside. I sat down at one of the tables that had a sun umbrella and made sure I could see the door to Gertie's office. This location seemed a little less cool than waiting in a dark street in the Charger, but that's life I guess.

For a while I just let the coffee sit there on the table. I'd never actually taken a sip of coffee from this place before. Whenever I'd bought a cup of it in the past, I'd just waited for it to get cold and thrown it away. I had never thought of myself as a coffee guy, and since I had only needed it to blend in occasionally, there had never been a reason to actually taste it. But now there I was with no booze around, so I took the cup and gave it a try. Almost immediately, my heart rate increased. I had the impression that my metabolism was speeding up, that I was digesting faster, that if I wanted to, I could actually run for almost a minute. The warmth that was normally just in my hand now spread out all over my body. It was like someone had invented an anti-booze. I was thinking that now I'd be able to get really wasted and then switch gears whenever I wanted. I took some bigger swigs and almost burned my mouth, but I didn't care because I was feeling ready for anything.

I started going through the pictures I'd taken of the real-estate office. Most of my photos were blurry versions of the photos of houses and condos that were posted up on the window. But occasionally I could see behind them into the office. No one was there. It was a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs for the customers. She had a big computer monitor on her desk, but not much else. In the back of the room there were some filing cabinets and shelves.

It was a little after four o'clock, and I was starting to get bored. Normally when you're on a stakeout, you're in a car and you have a partner who is in love with you who starts telling you all sorts of secret love-confession stuff while you're looking at something important in your binoculars. And then you answer something like, "hey, you know when we made sweet love that last time I was separated from my wife, but now we're back together so we can't do it anymore." And she answers that she doesn't care, that you were great together and she had never felt as safe and alive as she had when she was in your arms and stuff. And then through the binoculars you see the perp whack someone over the head with a wrench, and so you get out of the car, pull out your gun and start running after the bad guy, guns a' blazin'. Maybe I'd bring Ballsack next time.

Okay, things were getting weird because of the coffee. I was thinking a mile a minute, imagining all sorts of shit. I suddenly had the desire to write down every thought that came into my head, so I took the pen and my little stack of paper and started going crazy. I was lost in my own little world of caffed-up writing and didn't see anything going on around me. My pen was starting to make so much noise that when I finally looked up I noticed everyone was looking at me. Four or five ugly-looking dorks with laptops had joined me at the outdoor tables, and they all had huge cups of coffee. I was about to yell at them and tell them I'd make as much noise as I wanted when the skinniest dork—a bald guy wearing jeans and a USC sweatshirt—started talking.

"Damn, the muse is with you today. I tried writing on paper for a while, but I couldn't stand the sight of my own handwriting. No matter what I wrote, it seemed like a bad idea. I would type my work up later, and it would need so much editing that I went back to typing directly."

Then I saw that all the other dorks were also looking at me in admiration. They weren't pissed off about the noise. They were impressed.

"Well...I can't type very well. Plus, I got a thing with computers. You know—a naked-chick thing. Turns me into a drooling zombie for a while," I said before I could stop myself. This caffeine was making my mouth go faster than my brain. One of the other dorks at his laptop nodded his head yes all serious.

"Same thing used to happen to me," he said. "I had to have the wireless feature disabled. You remember that Nick Cage film where he keeps telling the bad guys to put the stuffed bunny down? Well, I wrote that whole movie as fast as I could while signed into a live porn site. Half of the lines in that movie I meant to type in the sex-chat window. That was when I knew I had hit bottom and had to do something about it."

They all went back to typing. I looked at the pile of paper in front of me and saw that I had written about forty pages of god knows what. Several pages of it appeared to be drawings of me in super-hero costumes doing it with stick-figure chicks. I also noticed that it was now almost seven o'clock. If Gertie had come by here, I hadn't noticed. Damn, I had a new drinking problem.

"You guys here every day?" I asked.

"Whenever there's work to be done," said the bald guy.

"Well then, I'll see you again soon," I said and gathered up my things.

18

I drove back home. All the west-bound lanes moved along perfectly. In the other direction, the people who had to drive home to the east side sat blocked in mile after mile of traffic jams. I almost felt sorry for them, except that if they weren't there suffering, I wouldn't have fully appreciated what a lucky guy I was to have a house out west. Someone's always gotta pay.

As I entered Dennis' neighborhood, I saw my dad out walking the big poodle. I couldn't believe that he had decided to take him out all on his own.

I pulled in and got out of the car. When my dad made it over, we went inside. I could tell that he had been sculpting again because there were wrappers from the blocks of chocolate lying around. Ballsack licked at them a little, so I guessed he was hungry, too. I picked all that up, gave the big poodle some food, and turned on the tube for dad. I ordered a couple of delivery pizzas and then sat down on the couch. My body was aching from the caffeine ride it had been through. I really needed some food and a good night's sleep.

After dinner I walked home with Ballsack. Tommy said something like "I 'ave I-runned you cloziz" to me when I passed through the living room, but I was so tired that whatever he meant didn't register. I only grunted and kept going.

That night I dreamed all sorts of weirdness. I think the caffeine in my body was making my brain remember stuff. I dreamed about my meeting with Spieldburt the other day, but this time, since I wasn't wasted, all sorts of details I had missed the first time were coming back to me. I now remembered, for example, something I had asked him. This is how I remembered it in the dream:

"So Spieldburt, when you did that E.T. movie, did you ever think about how ridiculous a similar but reversed situation would be? Like, if a human scientist went to another planet and got stranded, would he be standing there going 'hmm...I have to improvise a complex intergalactic-communication device so that I can contact my scientist colleagues who left me here by accident—oh look! There's candy on the ground! I love candy! I should pick up the pieces slowly and pay no attention at all to where I'm going.' I mean, come on, was this the dumbest E.T. on the ship or what?"

"You have a sound point," Spieldburt answered, stroking his beard. "I really could have used someone like you to point out these glaring contradictions in my film. Perhaps after you find out whether my lover is cheating on me you could read through some of my newest projects?"

"It would be a pleasure," I answered.

19

I woke up the next morning and got ready as fast as I could. When I went into my closet to get a fresh Arnold, I saw that Tommy had ironed my clothes. Life just kept getting better and better.

I took my dad some fruit for breakfast. He was already up playing chess on the computer. He was really looking good nowadays, but I was going to have to buy him some more clothes and make him take a shower again soon.

I arrived at the Starbucks before 9am. Some of the writers were already there. We said hello, and I went inside to get a coffee. The same guy as yesterday was working, so I waited in his line. The name on his badge was Max. He remembered who I was.

"Okay, now imagine that Columbo is coming in for some coffee. Give me whatever you would give him," I said.

The kid thought for a while and then grabbed a big cup and filled it up. No steamy, foamy stuff this time around.

"Dark roast," he said. "Put two creamers and a pack of sugar in it, because Columbo has a soft side."

I thanked him and did exactly that.

I went outside with the writers and took out my paper and pen. I was going to have to pretend to be writing something from now on if I wanted to maintain my cover. The guys looked at me with admiration, as if I were an old kung-fu master keeping an ancient fighting style alive.

This coffee was exactly what I wanted. It was rough at first, just like when you look at Columbo and think what an ugly guy he is.

I looked up from my coffee and noticed that the bald USC guy from yesterday was wearing the same sweatshirt again. In fact, all of them were wearing something they had worn yesterday. One guy had on the same hat. Another, the same scarf. I, of course, was wearing the same T-shirt. I started thinking that after this P.I. stuff was over, I'd have to give a try at the writing since I apparently fit the profile.

"I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Lonnie."

They all told me their names. USC guy's name was Jake. Scarf guy was Al. Hat guy was Leonard. Then there was pocket-watch guy—it actually took me a few more times before I realized that this was his thing—whose name was Eddie, and old-Birkenstock guy, whose name was Jerry. I tried never to sit too close to Jerry. Occasionally, no matter where I sat, a gust of wind would remind me he was there.

At about 10am, a young woman walked up to Gertie's office. She took out a key, unlocked the door, and went inside. I saw the lights come on, but I couldn't see what she was doing from where I was sitting. I had barely started in on my coffee, but I really needed to go see what this chick was up to. I thought about going right up and talking to her, but then when I came here to spy on Gertie in the future, this chick might come over and say hi or tell Gertie that I was the guy who had been looking for her. No, that wouldn't work at all.

After a few more sips of coffee, my brain got into the right mode of thinking. I stopped pretending to be writing stuff and called Gertie's office number on my shit phone. The young woman answered.

"Gertie Elliot's office. Gertie isn't here right now because she's off doing it right! Can I help you?" she said in a perky voice.

"Uh...who are you?" I asked.

"This is Ellen, Ms. Elliot's assistant. Do you need to talk to Ms. Elliot?"

"Yeah...I was wondering about a house or something."

"Great! I'll have Gertie get in touch with you as soon as she comes in. One second while I write down your number."

I hung up as fast as I could. A couple of seconds passed, and my phone rang. It was Ellen. Damn caller ID. She must have thought we had got cut off. I answered it.

"Sorry about that," I said. "Look, I'll call back later. I've got meetings all day today, so I don't want to be bothered. Don't tell her to call."

"Oh. Okay. But call us as soon as you can."

That wasn't very smooth, but at least I now knew that Gertie was supposed to come by the office today. All I'd have to do is wait around long enough, and that wouldn't be too difficult as long as I could keep myself occupied.

To stay in good with everyone, I didn't even have to pretend to be writing anymore because I noticed that Old-Birkenstock Jerry hadn't written anything at all today, and everyone was being much nicer to him because of it. He would sigh, grimace, and drum on the laptop, or write a few words with soft, irregular tapping on the keyboard and then delete what he had written with hard, regular pounding of the delete key. And everyone understood what he was going through without asking him anything. Pocket-Watch Eddy even bought him his next coffee. Swell guys, these writers. The less you work, the nicer they are.

At noon I was exhausted. I couldn't take the writers sympathizing with my lack of writing anymore. It was emotionally draining, and somehow it made me feel ridiculous, as if I were pretending not to be able to get it up around a bunch of impotent dudes just to be nice. And anyway, this writing crap didn't seem too difficult to me. I was thinking that I was going to come back after I was done pretending to be Dennis and write some serious shit. But for the meantime, I'd just write down descriptions of all the people who went into Gertie's office to talk with Ellen.

I was really getting into my descriptions when the kid from Starbucks, Max, came out to pick up the empty cups that had been left on the tables. He looked over in my direction and saw that I had already thrown my cup away. I thought he was going to be happy about this, but instead he came over and said, "Ummm, these tables are for customers only. You can stay here as long as you want if you keep buying coffee."

This was getting expensive, this spying. I was going to have to bill Spieldburt for this. I went in and got another coffee. This time I asked for something inspector Clouseau would drink. I got an espresso, which wasn't cool because it was so small. I had to go back for another one every thirty minutes so I could keep sitting at the table. And although I had avoided running off to the bathroom so far, I couldn't take it anymore. I just hoped Gertie wouldn't blow through there while I was away from my post. Old-Birkenstock Jerry must have had to go too, because he got up and followed me into the restroom.

We took our positions next to each other at the urinals. I started going and had to hold back what would have been orgasmic-sounding groans. I bet he was doing the same thing, because even after twenty seconds we were still going strong. And then I noticed something. I could feel a fine mist hitting my flip-flopped feet. I had no idea whether this mist was coming from me or Old-Birkenstock Jerry, but either way, it was pretty clear that my feet were getting peed on. This was one of those things in life that I'd never be able to ask about, no "Hey Jerry, you aren't peeing on my feet, are you?" especially because if I could feel that, he had to be feeling the same thing, if he was paying attention. No wonder those sandals of his were smelly. I finished up and got out of there.

Maybe I was imagining it, but as I rounded the corner and headed outside, I thought I could feel my feet stinging. I looked down at them, stopped paying attention to where I was going and walked right into someone.

"Oh god, sorry," I said and looked up into the eyes of Gertie Elliot.

She was wearing a green miniskirt and a pink, frilly blouse. She was showing a lot more leg and cleavage than I wanted to see, and that was saying a lot since those were things I usually didn't complain about seeing too much of. The thing was, she managed to set everything up so that you didn't have a choice but to look at her action. And when you have the impression that you're being forced to look at something you normally try to look at, you ask yourself why, and then you get really confused about the whole thing instead of just enjoying the view. So what I finally decided was that I wouldn't have normally wanted to look at her because she was out of my age group. It gave me the feeling I was doing something weird, looking at an old lady like that.

"Slow down there. Lucky for me there's a little cushion," she said and put her hand on my belly for a second. Her breath floated over to my nose, and I could tell that she had been a life-long smoker. The smell was like a mix of old tobacco and rotting meat. This again gave me a weird impression. It was like she was hiding a bunch of nastiness behind an artificially sexy facade. But the stuff she was hiding kind of poked out all over, like the little whiskers she tried to cover up with foundation. I couldn't help imagining that if you took off all her clothes, everything would come loose and she would turn into a greasy, red-haired sea lion. One that would try to do you.

"Sorry about that. You okay?" I asked.

"I've bumped up against harder things than you," she said and gave me a wink. She continued over to the counter to order a coffee. I went outside and sat down with the writers. After a few minutes, she strolled by us on her way over to her office, her rump swaying to the rhythm of her high heels. I watched her go down the sidewalk and into her office.

I looked over and noticed that Pocket-Watch Eddy was fidgeting more than usual. He had a desperate look on his face. He started hitting the keys harder than normal and was breathing like an animal. The other writers noticed it too and stopped working.

"Eddy," said Hat-Guy Leonard, but Pocket-Watch Eddy just continued banging away at his laptop. "Eddy!" he said again, louder.

"No no no, not now," said Pocket-Watch Eddy, and he continued to hammer away. "I was just not thinking big enough—I'm changing directions. Bigger, better, more modern. Going with what people like. Everything's flowing fast now."

"Eddy," said Hat-Guy Leonard, "you aren't working on that idea that you told us about last week, are you?"

"I've made changes, lots of changes. It's okay now," he said. He looked hysterical as his fingers tapdanced all over the keyboard.

"No Eddy, it's not okay. Just go back to the themes Sony is developing. Give them what they want," said Hat-Guy Leonard.

"To hell with their themes! I can't write in a box, Leonard! They're holding me back, killing my creativity. No, no—I won't do it!"

"What are you working on, Eddy?" asked USC-Shirt Jake, but it didn't sound like a question.

"Oh, you'd like to know, wouldn't you? I'll never tell you!" he answered, and hunched up closer to his screen to prevent us from seeing anything.

"We know what you're writing, and we want you to stop," said Scarf-Guy Al. "Stand up, stretch your legs a little bit, grab another coffee—I'm buying—and get back to work."

"You have no idea what I'm writing! It'll be the biggest film of all time!" he said. Then he leaned back and stared off into the distance. "Imagine an enormous, environmentally friendly luxury cruise liner, sailing inexorably toward a tragic destiny, upon which a friendly race of twelve-foot tall, blue, cat-like people vacation peacefully, all of which have humanoid sexual organs that you will guiltily try to sneak peeks of throughout the movie. Suddenly, an American Army spacecraft lands on the deck of the ship. Their mission: infiltrate the vacationing blue cats with advanced cat clones in order to turn the giant, doomed ship into an oil platform and drill for rare natural resources beneath the sea—resources that seem unnecessary based on the level of technology they have clearly acquired to be able to make the clones, but hey, you'll be too busy trying to look under the loincloths to make that deduction. One man resists and is accepted by the cat people before the ship slams into a floating sea rock and sinks, killing everybody except the cat woman who had been getting it on with the good human."

"Damn it Eddy! You told us about 'The Titavatar' when you lost it last week. You don't have permission to use those characters. Stop it now!" said Hat-Guy Leonard.

Eddy seemed to come out of his trance. He looked down at his screen.

"My God, what have I been doing?" He erased the document and then stood up to go get a little air.

"At least we caught him early," said Scarf-Guy Al. He looked over at me. "I once cracked like that and started writing a movie about an ambitious wookie groomer, who, when confronted by an intergalactic conflict, decides to move to a neutral country and open a salon. It was a musical. I finished half of if before the guys realized I had cracked and stopped me." He shook his head and went back to work.

20

Gertie came out of her office about a half an hour later. I watched her as she made her way over to her car. It was a yellow '78 Eldorado Biarritz, one of those old boats that, even though it was the size of a house, only had two doors. It had sweet white-wall tires. It was going to be easy to follow.

I ran over to my car and got in. I pulled around to her side of the parking lot and caught a glimpse of her making an illegal turn onto Venice Boulevard. She was heading out west. I turned east and then, when I was sure no cops were around, swung a Uey. I had lost sight of her, but I had no trouble catching up in Dennis' powerful Charger.

She drove like a maniac. Sometimes she sped up for no reason, and then after I matched her speed, she'd slow down suddenly and I'd have to slam on my breaks to avoid hitting her. I got the impression that she was looking for something in the glove compartment or trying to find a station on the radio, because the Eldorado kept jerking to the left and right, and would even slowly drift into the oncoming lane once in a while. But one good thing about the way she was driving was that I could be sure she wasn't looking around to see if she was being followed.

She continued until she arrived at her house, a nice little place in Venice on the corner of Dell Avenue and Sherman Canal. She pulled into her garage and parked. I drove by, pretending to be just another tourist gawking at the houses on the canals. I got a good look at her place and was happy to see that there was nothing blocking the windows. Most of the canal houses have small lawns, so the owners plant a lot of trees to give them some privacy. Gertie had a few trees, but the second-floor windows were clear. The real problem was going to be trying to find somewhere to park. All the streets in that area were permit only, and if I parked somewhere else and walked around, that'd only fly for a while. I could take pictures and pull out the binoculars—everybody does. But after a while people would start to get suspicious. I drove north up Dell Avenue and then turned around and drove slowly over the canal bridge, looking right into Gertie's windows. Then I turned around and did it again, but she had already pulled the curtains closed.

I tried to make another pass, but there were so many cars that it was taking forever and turning around was getting difficult. I decided to park a little to the west on Pacific Avenue and then walk back on foot. I'd pretend to be a creepy tourist until it got weird. By the time I got back to her place, the lights were out. I couldn't tell if she was still there. I did a tour of the entire canal system waiting for any changes, but nothing doing. I either hadn't seen her leave, or she was in a room I couldn't see very well.

21

I walked back to the Charger and got in. The radio said it was almost seven in the evening. I hadn't eaten anything in forever, and since I had just done some serious walking, I was feeling light headed. Then I realized I hadn't ordered anything for my dad either, so he must have been hungry, too. I drove back to Santa Monica, picked up some sub sandwiches, and then went over to Dennis'.

When I walked in, I smelled something funky. Ballsack had left a little package for me on the tiles in front of the door. I guessed that it was his way of telling me he was pissed off at me for staying out all day without him. I also noticed that my dad wasn't playing chess. He was just sitting on the couch doing nothing.

"Dad, I'm sorry about this. I got caught up in a bunch of stuff and just forgot." He didn't look over.

I took out the sandwiches and set everything in front of him. He waited a minute or two and then tore into his. When I went to feed the big poodle, his bowl was already full. My dad must have given him something to eat. That made me feel even worse. My dad was becoming more responsible than I was. I downed my food, cleaned up the poodle poo, and straightened up the place a little. Then Ballsack came strolling sheepishly into the room. He must have thought he was going to be in trouble, so I stroked his afro a little to make him feel better.

The dog and I went home to sleep after I saw that my dad was back to normal. When I lay down, I could really feel my body aching from all the walking I had done, but my brain was going crazy thinking about everything I had done that day. The caffeine must have had something to do with that. Even when I didn't want to think, everything was turning round and round. I had to listen to more frog barking than usual before I flushed that day out of my head.

22

I spent longer than usual in the shower the next morning. I let the hot water massage all the soreness out of my muscles. I hadn't been so active in a long time, and I certainly hadn't laid off the booze like that in a while. If I kept this pace up, I wasn't going to have time to be so fat anymore.

I got dressed and left Dennis' cool clothes in the hamper for Tommy to wash. I was thinking about bringing a week's worth of Dennis' clothes over to my place because going over to his house and changing again every morning was starting to be a pain in the ass.

I grabbed a bunch of delivery menus from the kitchen before I headed over to Dennis' house. I decided I was going to leave them with my dad so that he could start ordering food whenever he wanted. I had thought about picking up some groceries and stocking Dennis' fridge, but I didn't think my dad was going to be ready to cook things, or even to put sandwiches together. This delivery system would be easy for him. I'd just leave some more money in the chess-winnings bag, and he would think he was earning his own food now.

I explained all that to my dad while I was soaping him up. Making him take a shower now was a lot easier than the first time. He basically did everything by himself. The only thing I had to make an effort on was the shaving. He still didn't like that at all.

23

I decided to take the big poodle with me today. I changed cars so that if I had to tail Gertie again, she wouldn't recognize me. Ballsack jumped in the green Mercedes and gave the windows his usual licking over as we drove off to Culver City.

All my writer buddies were already drinking coffee and hammering away at their laptops. I tied the big poodle to one of the tables and went in to see my favorite coffee guy, Max.

"Okay," I said when I made it up to the register. "Give me whatever you would give Remington Steele."

"Who's that?" asked Max.

"That's the name James Bond used to use. I mean one of the old James Bonds, back when he was an investigator on TV."

"Which Bond? The ugly one no one liked?"

"No, that Charles Bronson guy," I said. This Max didn't know a lot of stuff.

He thought it over for a while. He started up a special brew of dark roast from the largest cocaine-exporting country he could find, and then once he found the biggest cup in the joint, he filled it up three-quarters of the way full. Then he dropped a couple of shots of espresso in it. Now, whenever you drop shots of anything in something else, you know you got a hell of a drink. I'd never thought of this Remington Steele guy like that, so I was thinking Max here was a little light in the loafers, but whatever.

I went outside and got into my surveillance position. Although I now knew where Gertie lived, I was thinking that it wouldn't hurt to watch both places. If she was doing a married guy, she'd probably meet up with him during the day anyway.

I took a drink of my coffee. As it flowed down my throat it felt like an ice pick was being jammed into my skull. I took another drink to make that feeling go away. I felt like a car that had needed a jump but was now purring softly. I downed half of it in a few more gulps. I wiped away a couple of drops that were rolling down my chin before they could stain my Arnold.

I set my cup off to the side and started in on some fake writing, all the while keeping an eye on Gertie's office door. I could see Ellen's shadow moving around more than usual, and that made me curious. She seemed to be moving slow today, and, in fact, the guys seemed to be typing slower than normal, too. Then Ballsack saw a squirrel and jerked his leash so hard that he made the table move. My cup came off the table and started falling toward the ground. Without even thinking, I reached out and grabbed it before it had fallen halfway down.

"Niiiiiice," said USC-Shirt Jake.

It was the caffeine. It had given me some kind of super speed. I was feeling wicked invincible, like I could do anything.

"Hey guys, guard the dog a minute. I have to run an errand," I said, and before anyone had time to answer, I was off in a flash.

I ran over to my car to make the guys think I had forgotten something. When I saw they weren't looking, I cut back in the other direction toward Gertie's office. With this super speed, I was going to find out what Ellen was up to. Maybe she was setting up an open house for her boss. I could pose as a client and get some inside information.

I made two or three lightning-fast passes in front of the windows. It looked like Ellen was organizing something on her desk. She had a lot of stuff laid out all over the place, but I couldn't tell what. On my next pass, I quickly smashed my face up against the window, and when my view was blocked by the listings posted up on the glass, I slid around until I had an unobstructed vantage point. All this I did so fast that—

"Can I help you with something?" asked Ellen, who had materialized right next to me.

"Uh...Yes," I said. I was thinking about making a run for it, but seeing how I had already overestimated my abilities once, I thought it would be better not to push my luck. And anyway, all sorts of normal people who aren't spying on anyone look at the houses displayed in real-estate office windows, right?

"You've got something on your nose," she said. She pulled out a tissue and handed it to me. "The pollution gets on everything. We have these windows cleaned every week, but with all the cars..." she said, pointing at the window. I noticed that my nose and hands had left circular tracks all over it. And I thought I had just given a few sneaky peeks.

"I have to get some reading glasses some day," I said, wiping off my face.

"Come on in."

Normally I'd have made up an excuse to leave, but this chick had got me all confused by making me imagine myself sliding my face all over the window. I followed her in.

"So, what's your name?" she asked.

I knew that the last name in the world I should say was Dennis.

"Lonnie Herisson," I said. Some secret-agent guy I was. That was the second-to-the-last name I shouldn't have said.

"Oh right—you called the other day. I gave your number to Ms. Elliot. Has she got in touch with you yet?"

"Not yet." I looked over at Ellen's desk and saw that she had been putting together packets of information for an open house.

"Are you looking for a new place?"

"I'm currently a home owner. I rent out a room in my house, and I was wondering if I should keep doing that or if I'd make more money by selling the place." I was amazed at how fast my brain could come up with stuff now that it wasn't blitzed on the booze.

"Well, the market is down now, so you're probably right to rent it out, but Ms. Elliot will have to come by and look at your property to be sure. I'll let her know about your situation and she'll get in touch with you soon."

"How soon? Has she got a lot going on this week?"

"Ms. Elliot is one of the west side's most successful realtors, but she'll make time for you."

"Can I have one of these open-house flyers? That way I'll have her contact info."

"Sure. Here you go."

I took the flyer and got out of there. I walked back over to my table. All the guys had stopped writing and were watching me.

"What was going on over there, Lonnie?" asked USC-Shirt Jake.

I guessed it had looked pretty weird, me running back and forth in front of the window and making a trail in the pollution with my nose. But these were guys, and with them, and in almost every other situation in life, all you need is the right excuse.

"I want to do that real-estate chick," I said, and everybody nodded and went back to work.

Gertie's flyer said that the open house was in two days on Saturday. That meant that I knew at least three things about her schedule. First, she'd have to pick up the flyers from the office soon. Second, she'd probably be stopping by that house tomorrow to make sure everything was ready. And third, I knew where she'd be all day Saturday.

The best thing that could happen would be for her to sell the house and feel like celebrating. Then I could be sure she'd call her friends and, maybe, her lover. Then I'd snap a few pictures and that would be the end of it. But if she didn't sell it...No, I couldn't let that happen. I wanted that E.T. money fast. I'd have to pose as an interested buyer, using my wicked powers of imitation. I had a lot of experience at this now, so I was sure I could pull it off.

Ballsack was getting antsy, so I took him for a walk around the block. On the way back, I picked up some food from an Asian fast food place, The Giant Angry Panda, bought a bottle of water for the big poodle, and went back to my table.

For the rest of the day, I made up details about the person I was going to pretend to be at the open house. I wrote all this stuff down so I could study it and be sure not to trip up. I decided to call myself something embarrassing so that when I told her my name I could pretend to be ashamed of it, and that way she'd never suspect I was lying because she'd be too busy feeling sorry for me. After much thought, I decided on Dick Hedley, owner of an up-and-coming chain of all-natural fertilizer stores whose headquarters had just relocated to the L.A. area. Here's what I was thinking: if someone tells you his name is Dick Hedley and he sells shit for a living, you're pretty much going to give the guy a break.

24

I was about to call it quits for the day when I saw the yellow '78 Eldorado Biarritz narrowly miss flattening an old man who was coming out of the pharmacy. Gertie parked in one of the 15-minute spots and opened her car door, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke. When she swung her feet out of the car and stood up, she pushed her door even farther open and dinged the neighboring car, a hybrid. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and, when no one had, she continued over to her office.

I quickly gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to the writers. Ballsack and I went over to the Mercedes and got in. I pulled around closer. I could see Gertie in her office talking on the phone, looking out the window. As soon as she saw the meter maid pull into the lot, she hung up, grabbed her stuff, and headed out to her car.

This time she headed north on Overland Avenue. I had no problems following her because there was so much traffic that she couldn't randomly hit the accelerator like she normally did. My only worry was that she'd side swipe another car and have to spend the evening dealing with her insurance company, but no matter how close she came to getting into an accident, she always managed to pull out of it safely and then to free up a hand long enough to give the bird to whatever innocent person she'd almost run into.

She continued up to Century City, turned west on Pico Boulevard, and then north on Westwood. There was so much traffic on Westwood that it took us thirty minutes to get up to Wilshire Boulevard, where she turned east after throwing her glowing cigarette butt into someone's convertible.

While zigzagging east on Wilshire, she lit up another cigarette and then dialed a number on her cell phone. The traffic crawled to a halt, and she found herself next to a noisy semi truck that was headed in the other direction. She reached down and cranked up the window, probably so she could hear whoever she was talking to, and her car started filling up with smoke. I could barely make out her silhouette after a few minutes. When the traffic broke, she must have still been able to see the road because she pulled forward and kept going. When she opened her window I almost lost her in the clouds of smoke pouring out of her car.

Right before the L.A. Country club, she turned north on Comstock Avenue and continued into a swanky neighborhood. About a half a mile up, she turned into the driveway of a huge house with marble columns and then walked up to the front door. I pulled over and watched for a minute. A sexy, twenty-something woman opened the door and let her in. I was a little disappointed because I was hoping she would be greeted by some old dude she was doing.

I pulled on down the road a ways and parked the Mercedes. I grabbed some of Dennis' spy equipment that I had put on the floorboard behind the front seat. When the big poodle came bouncing out of the car, I dropped the parabolic microphone. It was made out of plastic, so nothing looked broken. The real problem was that the dish part was about eighteen inches wide, and it looked kind of weird, me carrying it around.

I strolled back toward the rich house, just a normal guy walking a big poodle. When I got a little past the house, I could see that there was something going on in the backyard. I took out a little monocular scope and focused it, putting it back in my pocket every time a car came by. It looked like a group of women were there, standing around drinking wine. I looked around to see if anyone was watching me, put on the earpiece of the microphone and aimed the little satellite dish at the women.

"Oh my God! This cream is soooo decadent. It smells so good I could eat it," said one chirpy broad.

"The idea is for someone to eat it off you!" said someone else, followed by a bunch of chick laughter.

"I definitely want a tube of this stuff," said a gravelly, dehydrated voice that I recognized as Gertie's.

"I have a gift box that includes this cream and five other Bow-tay products," said a different woman.

"I think I'll just take—"

"Hey, what are you doing?" asked some guy in a jogging suit who had come out of nowhere. He was looking at me all hostile. I didn't have much time to think.

"Bob! Hey Bob," I said, as if I were talking into my earpiece. "I'll have to let you go now. I'm headed over to the country club. See you later tonight." Then I knelt down in front of Ballsack and took out his bottle of water.

"Hell of a day we're having, ain't it?" I asked. I turned the parabolic microphone straight up and poured water into the satellite dish. The big poodle came up and started lapping away, and I could hear every splash perfectly through the ear piece.

"What kind of dog dish is that?" asked the guy. I could see he was skeptical.

"The rod in the middle prevents this dumb bastard from sticking his nose down too deep and drowning. I've had to give him mouth-to-mouth before." He watched Ballsack lap the water up. I could hear the dog breathing, and every time his tongue hit the microphone it gave me goose bumps. Some of the water in the satellite dish was leaking down the center, and I knew it'd only be a little while longer before the thing was fried.

"Wow. I didn't realize that was such a problem. Did you buy that at Petco?" He looked like he was imagining having to give mouth-to-mouth to his dog.

"No. I special ordered this from Europe." Whenever I wanted to make people, especially rich people, believe something stupid, that's the magic word I used. They never doubted it. "The Europeans are way ahead of us in anti-dog-drowning technology."

"I'll have to look into that. My wife would be crushed if our dog died like that."

"Oh yeah. And imagine how sad you'd be knowing you could have prevented it."

Ballsack jumped a little, as if he had just received an electric shock. The sound in my earpiece went out at the same time. I dumped the water out and stood up.

"Well, water break is over. Have a good jog," I said and started walking up the street.

When I got back to the Mercedes, I put the microphone in the trunk. I was hoping that it would work again after it had dried out, but even if it didn't, Dennis would never be able to figure out how it had got broken. Since I would soon be in close range at the open house, I figured I could do my job without it.

The big poodle and I strolled slowly around the neighborhood waiting for signs of anything. When the cosmetics party finally ended, all the women came out together onto the driveway. They were all young and doable—all of them except Gertie, of course. While they were kissing each other goodbye on the cheek, a black Porsche pulled in. An old dude, about Gertie's age, all gray hair and man boobs, got out of the car and walked over to one of the hot chicks. I was thinking that she was probably his daughter, but then he gave her a big kiss on the mouth and placed his hand right on the top of her sweet ass. I could tell this stakeout was a waste of time. There was no way that guy would prefer to sleep with Gertie.

I got in the Mercedes and waited for her to leave. Some of the young guests walked past me toward their cars, and I overheard them talking about Gertie.

"I don't know why she comes here. She hardly ever actually buys anything, you know?" said the chick I wanted to do.

"I know!" said the other chick I also wanted to do. "I don't even know who she's friends with. How did she get invited?"

"No idea, but if she thinks any cream is going to help her smooth out that hide..." and then they had moved too far away for me to do them.

I almost felt sorry for the old broad. Or at least I would have if I hadn't been so turned on by all those hot young chicks.

25

Gertie tore out of there a minute later. I had to make a dangerous U-turn and hit the accelerator to keep up with her. She must have been dying for a smoke during that party because she was again leaving a white fluffy trail behind her car.

The sun was going down. Gertie drove south to the 10 and turned west. When I made it onto the highway, the lowering sun's rays coming directly at me turned all the cars ahead into silhouettes, and I couldn't see shit. For a while I followed the trail of exploding cigarette butts, but finally I lost her.

Since she was headed west, I figured she was on her way home. I drove to Venice, parked on Pacific and walked with Ballsack to the canals. I knew that with the big poodle I'd stand out, so I tried to stay as far away from her house as possible while still being able to see if a light came on. I got bolder after the sun went entirely down, but there was still no sign of Gertie.

I had decided to give up on her for the night when I heard a lot of honking on a neighboring street. Sure enough, a minute or two later I saw the '78 Eldorado Biarritz pull into the garage. As the garage door was closing, I saw Gertie get out of the car with a couple of shopping bags from Victoria's Secret. I hung around the neighborhood long enough to see that no one else was joining her that evening, and then I went home.

26

Tommy was still up when I got back. He did that thing again where he stares right at me while his lips start to quiver. I knew that meant he had something he wanted to tell me, so I made an effort not to look bored while I waited for him to get it out.

"L.O.," he said.

"Hello Tommy," I said.

"Err, uh...I yam taking message earlier," he said.

"All right. Lay it on me."

"What?" he asked.

"The message. Tell me."

"Oh. Okay. L.N. called. She saying that nice to talk at you." I knew that was all he had to say, because his lips were smiling.

"Thanks."

I didn't remember giving my home number to Ellen. Those real-estate people were real leeches, tracking me down like that. Gertie would get to talk to my alter ego Dick Hedley soon enough.

I decided to spend a little time with Tommy. Maybe he missed me now that I wasn't around in the day. It had crossed my mind that he would want to listen to me speak and that if he didn't get to, he'd feel ripped off at having to pay a ridiculous rent to live with me. But mainly I still needed to resolve the lint enigma, and I figured that since the day was almost over, he had probably had enough time to accumulate a bunch of it in that belly button of his.

He went back to watching some realty show about a bunch of has-beens who had been forced to live with each other on a farm in Africa. The current debate was over which has-been had to pick up the giraffe poo. Different continent, always the same problem.

I sat down on the couch and watched with him. I didn't know if he understood, but he moved his lips like he was trying to repeat things they'd said. Then after a while I noticed that he always laughed right after I did. Most people don't find all the same things funny, so I was thinking that he was covering for the fact that he didn't understand jack. I waited until one of those losers said something about how this show had made him understand how important it was to protect endangered species, and then I started laughing my ass off. Tommy aped me, the big fraud.

I could only take the show for a few minutes more. I gave a few fake yawns hoping that I'd make Tommy yawn and stretch his arms out, giving me the opportunity to check out the lint, but he just sat there looking happy.

"You are tie-red," he said.

"Yeah. I guess I'll hit the sack."

I took the big poodle into my room and we dozed off fast.

27

On the way over to Dennis' place the next morning, I noticed that Ballsack had a lot of dirt matted up on his feet and belly. I hadn't bought any dog shampoo yet, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to soap him up once with a little human shampoo. I took him upstairs, put him in Dennis' big whirly bathtub, and lathered up his poodle afro. I thought he would enjoy the hot tub bubbles, but when I turned on the jets he freaked and jumped out. He ran all the way downstairs, shaking soap everywhere as he went. When I caught up with him, he wouldn't let me take him back upstairs, so I had to stick him in the downstairs shower. I closed the glass door, reached over the top of it and directed the nozzle all over him. He looked kind of dejected, as if he knew he looked like a big rat when he was wet.

I let him out and dried him off. I couldn't believe he wasn't shedding on the white towel—all the loose hairs must have come off in the hot tub. I thought maybe he'd catch a cold if I didn't completely dry him off, so I found a hair dryer in the cabinet, put it on low so I wouldn't scare him, and dried him completely as I combed him a little. When I got done, his afro looked even bigger than before.

28

Since the Gertie case was probably going to be over after this weekend, I needed to find out how much to rip Spieldburt off for. I found Dennis' number and dialed him up. It took a long time for the call to go through, and when it finally started ringing, it sounded different than it did normally.

Some guy answered it. He was speaking Mexican, so I didn't understand a thing.

"Is Dennis there? Dennis?" I asked.

"Just a minute," said the guy. He didn't have an accent or anything when he spoke English.

I could hear Dennis walking over to the phone. When I heard the noise of the receiver changing hands, I also heard the first guy ask who I was.

"It's my lover. What do you care?" answered Dennis. "Just keep packing your suitcase."

I guessed the first guy was Ignacio, Dennis' lover.

"I'll be back before you know it. There's no reason to get like this," said Ignacio.

"Hello Lonnie. Great to hear from you," Dennis said, talking into the phone but loud enough to be sure Ignacio heard him.

"Hi Dennis. I just wanted to let you know that your house and your dog are doing fine."

"That's great," he said. "Manolete's not giving you any problems?"

"No. He's been great. Hey listen—I was talking to my buddy the other day, and we were wondering how much a big-shot private investigator made for a job."

"Well, it depends on the difficulty of the job and the expenses incurred, but anywhere between 300 and 500 a day."

"A day?"

"Yes, unless I decided the job wouldn't take long enough to be worth my time. Then I charged a flat fee."

I couldn't believe how stupid I had been all my life, thinking that working had to be difficult. People like Dennis knew how to go at it. And I was sure that he could charge that much because he worked on the west side. If he'd been a private eye in the east, he'd have worked for minimum wage. Why did anyone want to live out east?

"Thanks Dennis. So, are you having fun out there?"

"I was until Mr. Businessman decided to cut his visit short," he said loudly so Ignacio could hear. "He hasn't even been here for one day. He had enough time to unpack his suitcase, and then the office called."

"I'll be back in three weeks!" said Ignacio in the background.

"No, seriously, Ibiza is amazing. I love it," he said.

"Cool. I'll call you again in a week or two to let you know how we're doing here."

"Thanks Lonnie. Glad I can count on you." We said goodbye and hung up.

I realized that my strategy had been all wrong. I was trying to get done with this Gertie case as fast as possible, but what I was really doing was cheating myself out of a lot of that E.T. money. Spieldburt probably knew that private investigators got paid by the day—who knows how many times he'd hired one before—so I couldn't ask him for a ton of money for something I had done in under a week. I decided that if I got the goods on Gertie this weekend, I'd keep it from Spieldburt until a few more weeks had passed. I'd string him on with a little more info every week, and that way when I finally gave him the pictures of Gertie rubbing those smoky whiskers of hers all over some dude, he'd be so exhausted and angry that he wouldn't even notice my enormous fee.

29

That morning I had my dad walk the big poodle while I hit the store and bought some more supplies, mainly more clothes for him and chocolate for sculpting. So far, he hadn't gotten too bored with this arrangement.

I needed to find out how to get in touch with Spieldburt. I figured he'd want an update, and since I was about to begin the next phase of my plan, this would be a good time to sum up everything I'd done so far. He had told me that he didn't want to be contacted because he didn't want anyone to be able to put us together, but I was feeling pretty sneaky, so I wasn't worried about it.

I knew I could drive around Hollywood and pick up a star map from someone, but even if Spieldburt did have a house in L.A., his old lady would be stalking around there. I needed to find him at work, where I could try to blend in long enough to get close to him. Lucky for me I now had contacts in the movie business.

That afternoon the big poodle and I took the Charger to my Starbuck's stakeout place. I read over my notes for tomorrow's open house so my writer buddies would think I was working, but as soon as I thought I'd put in enough time, I went after what I needed to know.

When USC-Shirt Jake got up to grab another coffee, I followed him and got behind him in line.

"Hey Jake," I said, "don't tell this to anyone, but I got a sweet idea that I'm working on. The thing is, I don't want to get too far in before I get permission to run with it. It uses someone else's characters, but I'm sure the guy will like it. It's completely in the spirit of the original movie."

"Oh yeah? Getting permission to write a sequel for someone is a real long shot, to be honest."

"I know, but this is the shit."

"What is it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, you ever see that extra-terrestrial movie, with the crazy glowing finger?" He looked at me like it was a stupid question.

"Um yeah," he said with a valley-girl accent.

"Here's the deal. Every good movie ends with people doing it. That movie didn't show us the doing, but you know it happened. Are we really supposed to believe that that little green dude just got in the ship at the end and that was the end of it? Come on! His friends forgot about him, left him on a strange planet, and then didn't even realize he was missing until he called them. There's going to be a lot of guilt there. So my movie starts with the little dude getting it on with all the guilty alien chicks on the ship. But what none of them realizes is that he's spreading a human virus around to everyone. Now, he's got immunity to this because he's eaten so much human food, but everyone else is going to croak wicked fast. That leaves our little guy with no one to do, so he gets all enraged, comes back to Earth and goes futuristic all over us. He captures a whole harem of beautiful chicks that he can't actually do because he doesn't have the right equipment, and that just makes him even angrier and crazier."

"You should definitely look into getting permission for that before you spend any time on it," Jake said.

"Where do I go for that?" He told me Spieldburt had his own studio up in Glendale. As soon as I got a coffee, I grabbed my stuff and took off in the Charger.

30

I drove downtown and then cut up north past Dodger stadium. It was really hot out there and the pollution was a lot worse than it was near the ocean. It got so bad that all I could think about was the tail pipe of the car in front of me and how I was breathing all that in. I started feeling better when I pulled off the highway.

The studio didn't have any public parking, so I found a place a few blocks away near a Starbucks. When I got to the front gate, I couldn't see any ticket prices to tour the place. I asked a security guy what was up, and he said they didn't do tours because they didn't have sound stages or lots there, just animation studios and offices. He recommended Paramount on Melrose.

"What if I need to talk to someone in this place?" I asked. He looked at me suspiciously.

"Does anyone in this place need to talk to you? Because if they do, your name will be on my list. Should I check?"

"You can check next time I come here, smart guy," I said and started walking back to the car. Maybe I was going to have to wait for Spieldburt to contact me after all.

I couldn't bear getting back on the highway so soon, especially now that it was closer to rush hour. If I left immediately, I'd just spend an extra hour blocked in traffic sucking on someone's tail pipe, so I wouldn't get home any faster than if I sat around at the coffee place for another hour and then left.

The Starbucks was swarming with people. I got in line and within a few minutes there were so many people that the line behind me was all the way out the door. As I stood there, I was thinking about how I was going to order without Max, my usual coffee guy. I couldn't remember exactly what he had made for me, and if I told this new guy to make me a P.I. coffee, I'd be pissed off when it didn't taste the same. I figured I'd change and ask him for something new.

The guy at the register's badge said his name was Daniel and that he was the manager. He looked really straight-laced. Everything about him said he made a conscious effort to make everyone think he was clean and organized. His hair was clipped short, his clothes were wrinkle free, and his smile came and went with every opening and closing of the cash register.

"Hey," I said when he was ready.

"Hello good sir. I hope you're having a fine day. What can I do you for?" he said so fast that I had to let it replay in my head before I could register everything.

"Um...here's the thing. My normal guy at the other place always makes me stuff—"

"Well sir, we have all the same excellent drinks you've come to love at any of our nation-wide chains. Would you like to step aside a moment and consult the menu?" he asked and directed his gaze at the next customer.

"No," I said, scooting in front of his glance. "Here's what I'd like. You know that guy who works down the street—that E.T. director guy?"

"I always liked Jaws myself."

"He did that, too? Damn...Well, if you were going to make a coffee for that guy—and I mean for his E.T. side—what would you make him?"

"Sir, there's a long line here. I'd like to help you, but you're going to have to tell me what you want," he said nervously. This whole creative aspect to coffee making was overloading his dollars-and-sense brain.

"Just give me a Spieldburt, minus the razor-sharp teeth and plus some freakishly long alien neck."

He took a small cup and turned toward all the coffee machines. He put the cup under one dispenser and then moved it to another. He was about to pour the coffee when he snatched the cup back up. He looked back over at me and the line of now-hostile customers, and then up at the menu. He nodded and shook his head as he tried to find the right one. Then he stepped back over to me and leaned over close.

"I really, really don't know what you want. But..." he stopped speaking and his eyes lit up as he caught sight of something behind me. "But that guy back there, he's one of the director's assistants." He pointed discretely at a wormy-looking, dark-haired, pencil-thin kid who was texting away on his phone. "He gets coffee for him all the time. Just wait here and see what he orders."

I stepped aside and got dirty looks from the next four or five customers as they came up to order. I took a closer look at the wormy kid while waiting for him to make it up to the counter. He was one of those guys who always have a five-o'clock shadow, but on him it didn't look tough because he was so scrawny. He also had a concave chest that made you think he had been stepped on by a horse.

He made it to the register and then ordered without waiting for Daniel the manager to be ready.

"Two skim vanilla lattes and a chai," he said. His voice was whiny and pompous, like some new-England egghead.

"Will you be drinking the chai, sir?" Daniel asked and looked over to see if I was paying attention.

"Yes. And this is important because...?" asked the kid.

"I'm just trying to memorize our regular customers' favorite drinks."

Daniel poured the coffee and gave it to the assistant, who paid and headed out. I was about to follow him when Daniel held up an extra vanilla latte that he had already poured. I paid for it, thanked him, and then left.

I needed to talk to this assistant guy before he got away. I followed him to his car, and while he balanced his coffee tray and dug around for his keys in the pocket of his cargo shorts, I came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

"You're the guy who works for that director, right? What's your name again?"

"Grant. Do I know you?" he asked.

"Well, no, but I'm trying to see your boss—"

"Look," he said, cutting me off. "Are you a writer or an actor? It's always one or the other."

"Uh...a writer."

"Okay. Yes—I read scripts for Steven, but the scripts are already picked from among the best available, most of which come from agents we've worked with for a long time. We don't take submissions from just anyone."

"But imagine someone came up to you with an amazing idea. If you were the person that discovered it and brought it to your boss, he'd think you were always doing your best to look for talent. That's the kind of guy he'd want working for him for a long time."

"And you're the guy who's going to give me this idea?" he asked, with one of his eyebrows arching up. "I'll tell you what. I'm headed out of here now—I need to get back before this gets cold. But some day, if I ever see you here again, I'll let you tell me about your idea the time it takes me to get through the line. And you'll buy the coffee."

This wasn't what I wanted at all. I was hoping he'd like my bogus idea and take it directly to Spieldburt. Of course, what he'd really be taking him would be a pile of papers with a note from me inside, explaining how smoothly I was handling his case. This Grant guy was turning out to be more of an obstacle than anything else.

"Okay buddy. I got some ironing out to do on it, and then I'll come back and blow your mind," I said. I was pretty sure I'd never see him again, and since he seemed to think he was better than me, I was happy about that. He got in his rusty hatchback and drove off. I had been right about him being a New Englander: the plates on his car were from Massachusetts. I got in the Charger, drank my coffee and listened to the radio for another half hour, then hit the highway.
Part 2

1

It was the day of the big open house, and I was feeling a little nervous. There were lots of things that I hadn't thought through enough, like what if I told Gertie I wanted to buy the house and, instead of calling her lover to celebrate, she called Spieldburt? Or what if she got so excited that she tried to do me instead of her lover? I really needed to get those pictures because after today she was never going to forget my face again. If I got caught following her after the open house, she'd probably come over and kick me in the kiwis.

I checked myself out in the mirror. Dennis' clothes looked great, and for some reason they fit me better than ever. The jacket I chose was perfect because it could be buttoned at the bottom. That way my usual amount of belly sticking out from underneath my Arnold would be covered up. Now that was class.

I leaned in close to the mirror, checking out all the little details of my face I'd never really looked at before. It was like looking at a butterfly. You look from a ways back and you see the nice wings, all colorful and flapping around. Then you get in close and you see those huge fly eyes, the antennae, the curly-snout thing that looks like it could suck your brains out, that hairy abdomen and those nasty insect legs. I started getting the creeps looking at myself. It looked like one third of my eyebrows had decided to grow out longer than the others and in new, exciting directions. My nostril hairs looked like tentacles that would latch on to passing prey and pull it in. I couldn't believe I'd been sticking my finger in there for so long and had never noticed. But the worst were the ears. They were like hairy tarantulas hanging out on the sides of my head. I hated spiders, so this was freaking me out royally. I was having a mini panic attack, imagining how people must have stared at me everywhere I had gone recently like I was a weirdo. My god, how had Helen put up with all this?

I had to get this taken care of before I talked to another human being. I thought the best thing would be to go to a beauty place where they didn't speak English so that I wouldn't have to listen to humiliating comments from the poor chick who was going to have to operate on me. I also knew that in Santa Monica I would have to pay too much, and they'd probably make me drink some kind of fruity root tea and listen to music designed to make you meditate, and all that would piss me off. So I gathered up my things, jumped in the Mercedes and headed for Korea Town.

2

I got off the 10 and drove up Vermont Avenue looking for a beauty place, but all the signs were in Korean, so from the road I couldn't tell what was what. Then I passed by what looked like someone's house. It had a sign in Korean, but it also had Mexican and English on it. It said "Beauty massage." I pulled in, put the roof up on the Mercedes, locked it, and walked in the front door.

A chick was sitting at a desk in what clearly used to be a living room. She looked up at me and smiled. Behind her in the kitchen I could see five beauty chairs in a row, and there were women back there getting their nails done. All the employees I could see were really hot, so I was thinking I'd made a good choice driving out to this place.

"Hi," I said to the girl at reception. She smiled again and nodded, and by that I understood that she didn't speak American. "I want to take all this off. This stuff here," I said, pointing at my newly discovered yetiness. She understood what I wanted and made a few scribbles on the agenda. Then she called for someone from the other room.

I was hoping one of the beautiful chicks would be working on me. In the few seconds it took for someone to arrive, I imagined meeting a gorgeous woman who'd communicate with me only through meaningful gestures. I'd become a regular client, each time becoming more and more friendly until one day I'd find her in the back room crying her eyes out. I'd take her in my arms and ask her what was wrong, and she'd tell me that her Korean gangster boyfriend was threatening to have her deported if she didn't start making dirty movies. She'd refuse to tell me where I could find him, but I'd eventually get it out of her and then head over there with a baseball bat and start breaking shit. Then we'd get married, and as soon as she had the green card, she'd stick me with a baby and take off. Damn, what was I getting myself into here?

An older lady, a kind of Korean Gertie—cigarette, whiskers and all—came up to me and led me back to the kitchen. She sat me down in one of the chairs and had a good look at me. My plan kind of backfired because she started speaking to everyone else in the room, and since I couldn't speak Korean, I was the only one who couldn't understand what she was saying. I knew she was talking about me because she would say something new and grimace every time she checked out one of my hairy spots. It didn't take me long before I could pretty much translate everything.

"My god, look at this big hedgehog," said Korean Gertie. "How do you think he hears or smells anything with so much hair growing out of his holes?"

"Who cares? With all that hair, he must be very virile," said an oldster next to me. "Perhaps he would be like an animal in the sack."

"I would have to be careful and ride on top of him. Otherwise he would squash me like a grape!" said Korean Gertie. All the other women laughed and looked over at me. I smiled like a dickhead.

She took out some tweezers and went to work on my brows. It felt like she was trying to kill me, but she had a smile on her face and giggled occasionally. Once she got all the stray ones, she took out a comb and a pair of scissors and cut the long ones down to normal size.

While she was looking over my ears, two girls came up and started working on my hands and feet. I didn't think I'd asked for this, but then who knows what I'd asked for. Anyway, it felt good and couldn't hurt anything.

Korean Gertie plucked one of my ear hairs, and I howled louder than I had ever howled in my life.

"That's a bad hedgehog man!" she said and shook her head. She put down the tweezers, and I was extremely happy about that. She went upstairs and came back five minutes later with a tin can. She took a tongue depressor, dipped it in the can, and then applied the warm, soothing stuff all over my ears. It felt so good that I imagined this was her way of apologizing for having tweezed that hair out of me. Then she took two strips of cotton and pressed them against my ears. She waited for the girls to finish with my feet and hands, and then had them stand on either side of me. She got right in front of me and started talking again.

"Yes, very sorry hedgehog man. We always try to use the cheap way first to save money, but since you are soooo nice, I broke out the liquid that instantly dissolves hair and makes you handsome. Now we'll gently take it off. Then....all....done!" she said loudly, and the two chicks to the left and right of me ripped the cotton off my ears. I believe I passed out for a few seconds. When I opened my eyes, Korean Gertie was right up in my face and I could smell her foul breath. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. The two cute Koreans were holding what looked like large spiders in their hands, showing me all the hair they'd just ripped off.

She grabbed a mirror and held it up for me to look in. My ears were the color of beets, and if I'd actually touched one of them I would have died, but I had to say I was looking pretty good. Korean Gertie looked at me confidently, as if she were saying that she could turn anything into something respectable to look at. I gave her an appreciative smile.

For the nose, she was a lot nicer. She had a round electric trimmer that she stuck up there and wiggled around, and that shaved everything off.

I'd always heard the jokes about getting a happy ending at places like these, but how were you supposed to go about asking for one? I didn't want to do anything stupid and not be able to come back, so I looked at Korean Gertie and made downward glances with my eyes so she could catch my drift. I figured that would give her the opportunity to show me either that she didn't know what I was talking about or that she was game, without me looking like a big pervert. She followed my eyes down and then looked back up at me. Then she pointed to the staircase. I got up, and she led me upstairs to a former bedroom that had a massage table in it. She pointed to the table and I got up on it. She moved behind me to the counter and must have been fiddling around with massage stuff, because I started smelling something good. Maybe she was going to heat up some oil or something. Then she crossed by me and walked over to the stereo. She put a CD in, and I was about to tell her I didn't want to listen to any new-age crap when I heard nature sounds coming out of the speakers. I could hear a gently running stream, an occasional owl, crickets, and then a sound I could barely hear at first that got clearer and clearer, so that eventually I couldn't hear anything else but this: frog barking. I fought against it for a minute, but I suddenly had an overwhelming need to take a nap. Maybe it would make my ears feel a little better anyway, a nice, quick nap. And then Korean Gertie could make with the hand doing.

I closed my eyes, fell asleep and started dreaming. In my dream, I floated around in a warm, peaceful river, and then swam over to a little cove filled with lily pads. The weather was beautiful and the air was fresher than it ever was in L.A. All the frogs were looking at me in a friendly way, inviting me to move in closer. There were three of them looking right at me, and they seemed to want to tell me something. I swam over closer and looked at their froggy mouths as they opened and said something I didn't understand in Korean. All of a sudden, I noticed that the frogs were now very large and were standing over me with their hands near my nether regions, and I was no longer in the stream. Then I noticed these weren't frogs anymore. I was awake back on the massage table, and all three of these chicks must have been working on me for some time. My unit felt all warm. Korean Gertie looked at me and said something familiar. I had just enough time to look down and see my newly-trimmed bush and to notice the sheets of cotton and wax they had applied to my hairy shaft before they ripped them off in a tour de force of coordination and pain.

I was going to howl worse than before. I was going to start breaking shit and going crazy like a tornado, but when I looked down at my manliness, it now seemed, without the hair, twice as big as before. I'd have put up with a lot worse to have a bigger-looking unit. The waxing really hadn't been that bad when I thought about it from that perspective.

I stifled all the screams and tears I would normally have let out and put my pants back on. I said thank you several times, and that reassured them. Korean Gertie helped me down the stairs and took me over to reception. I paid her, left tips for the other girls and put a business card in my wallet. She smiled like the wise old wizard who sends the apprentice off to kill monsters.

"Goodbye, hedgehog man," she said, I think.

3

I headed back west. The pain slowly faded away, leaving me with all sorts of new, sensitive hairless areas shifting around in my pants. This was another one of those things I wasn't going to be able to tell anyone about, unless...

I dialed Helen up on my shit phone.

"Hi Lonnie," she said.

"Helen! How's it going?"

"Better. I called your house the other day, but some guy who didn't speak English answered."

"Oh yeah," I said. "That was my new roomy. Hey listen, do you want to have lunch Monday?"

"I don't know..."

"Come on. It's just lunch. I got a lot of stuff to tell you about," I said, and I knew that would work because she had to be dying to know why I had been driving a Mercedes last time she saw me.

"Okay. But just lunch. Where do you want to go?"

"La Serenata, on Pico."

"All right. That sounds good. See you there," she said.

4

When I made it out west, I took the 405 south and then turned west on Manhattan Beach Boulevard. I followed the directions on Gertie's open house flyer all the way to a beautiful, three-story house on Ocean Drive. It reminded me of a shotgun-style house because it was crammed between two apartment buildings. It was definitely a luxury home, with huge windows and a nice balcony facing the ocean. I was sure you could spy on a lot of bikini-clad chicks from up there.

The door was open so I walked in. I didn't see anyone at first, so I checked the place out. The living room was separated from the kitchen by a dark, granite-covered bar, and all the appliances were stainless steel and looked professional. The woodwork and tile flooring looked brand new. I leaned over a little to get a closer look.

"That tiling was brought over from Europe," I heard Gertie say. I looked up and saw her in front of me. She was looking at a portable, touch-screen computer, swiping her finger over it. She looked up. "Sorry, just had to finish a little business there. I'm Gertie Elliot. Welcome."

"Hi, I'm—" and her phone cut me off.

"One second. It's the office. Why don't you take a look around and I'll catch up with you in a minute."

I walked quickly through the rooms and headed up to the third-floor balcony. It was exactly as I had thought. There was a pedestrian trail right below running parallel to the beach and it was full of babes on bikes, babes on rollerblades, babes walking slowly. I wished I could just rent the balcony.

I crept back down to the living room and stopped as soon as I was within earshot of Gertie's conversation.

"Disaster. Only the occasional beachgoer, curious to see how the well-off live. They've tracked sand in everywhere. I'm going to have to vacuum the place before I leave," she said, then listened for a while. "What? I don't remember that. Why don't you give me the number now, since nothing else is going on?" She paused again. "Great. What's his name and what does he want?" Pause. "Okay, thanks Ellen. I'll talk to you Monday."

I could hear her dialing. I stayed where I was, hoping to get more info about her weekend plans. Then my shit phone rang. I reached into my pocket and hit buttons until it stopped.

"Humph," grunted Gertie. She dialed again. My shit phone went off again. I took it out of my pocket, hit answer and was about to whisper to whoever it was that I'd call back later when I saw who the call was from: Gertie Elliot. I froze up for a few seconds, which gave her enough time to walk right over to me.

"I think it's for you," she said. I put the phone up to my ear.

"Uh...hello?" I said into the phone.

"Mr. Herisson. How nice of you to find me. You must have got tired of waiting for me to get back to you. I apologize," she said into her phone and hung up with a smile on her face.

I was lost. I wasn't supposed to be here. Dick Hedley was supposed to be here, buying a house so that Gertie would be happy enough to celebrate with her lover. I didn't know what to say.

"Uh...hi. This place is nice," I said.

"Are you in the market?"

"I think a place like this is a little out of my league."

"It's out of everybody's league right now. The market is terrible...I didn't even bother putting out hors d'oeuvres today because moochers have started coming to these things to eat for free. I even caught a couple making out in the upstairs bathroom this morning. It's already tough to be on top of the real-estate market here when the economy is strong, but lately I've really had to be creative. There are very few buyers now."

"That's why I'm pretty sure I'm going to keep renting my place out," I said. I wanted to make sure she didn't think she could get anywhere with me. "Anyway, I'd have to fix my place up a lot before I could sell it. I don't even have grass in my yard."

"It depends on the location. Where do you live?"

I told her my address. She did a double take and stared at me.

"Lonnie Herisson? No grass? Aren't you the guy who told the zoning committee that your lawn was an 'ecologically friendly, desert-landscape miniature?'" The tone of her voice had changed from friendly and professional to familiar and slightly sarcastic. "Now that was quite a maneuver. Fess up—you just didn't want to plant any grass," she said, staring me down with a crooked smile and a cocked eyebrow.

"Hey, if I don't want grass, it's my house. I'll do what I want," I said, probably a little louder than I should have. It's just that the grass thing always made me angry.

"I knew it! That was smooth, playing the environment card like that. You know how much money in home sales I've lost on that street because of your house? Ah Jesus...Let's go up to the balcony and have a smoke. This open house is dead." She passed in front of me and then walked slowly up the stairs, swaying her hips excessively. I could see the outline of her elaborate, pink thong underwear under her white skirt, and on one of her butt cheeks there was a tattoo that I couldn't see clearly. I didn't even want to look at it, but it was like an eye magnet. As I was trying to make it out, she whipped her head around and caught me in the act. She gave me an indignant look that changed into a half smile as she turned around and continued up the stairs. I felt like a peeping tom caught in the act, but then I realized that was exactly how she wanted me to feel. Gertie knew what she was doing.

When we got to the balcony, she took out a cigarette and lit it up. She took a huge drag while watching people pass by below.

"So what is it that you want?" she asked.

I decided to answer honestly, even if it revealed too much about my uniqueness and my dreams, and even if it risked my investigation.

"I want more money."

"You came to the right person. Let me think about your situation. I also want to come by and estimate the value of your property." She slid her finger around on her computer screen. "How about Monday afternoon?"

"I got a lunch date that day, but my renter should be home. He doesn't speak much English, so just point a lot, make approximative gestures with your hands, and say stuff louder than normal. People from other countries really appreciate that."

"He's not some weird kind of foreigner, is he?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

We both watched the beautiful, semi-naked people pass by on the path below for a few more quiet minutes. Then I said goodbye and went back to the Mercedes.

It took her another half an hour to clean the place up. I watched her come out, lock the door, and then take off in the Eldorado.

I tailed her back to her house, where she stayed long enough to freshen up and change clothes. Then she drove back to the huge house on Comstock Avenue, where I had spied on her before at the cosmetics party. At first I thought that she was going back to nail the oldster, but when I sneaked up to the window, I saw the hot chick sitting next to Gertie. They were all having dinner together.

I waited a while longer to see if she had any other plans for the evening, but she went straight home from there.

5

The next morning I got up early and went on a stakeout at Gertie's. Within an hour she was on the road. I followed her on the Pacific Coast Highway from Venice up to Malibu. I thought she was going to check on some real estate, but after she turned up Malibu Canyon Road, she pulled into the parking lot of a Presbyterian church. I pulled into the parking lot and watched her get out of her car. She was wearing a yellow dress that fell below her knees and covered most of her neck. It was so baggy that if I hadn't already seen her in racy clothes, I'd have taken her for an old conservative grandma. It had extra-large white lace on the edges that made me think she had hand-knitted it. Then as I watched her walk over to a young couple standing by the door, I was amazed to see that she knew how to walk without swinging all that luggage of hers. This was the first time I had seen her in flat-soled shoes. The usual cigarette in her hand had been replaced by a bible, which she carried against her hip like the Statue of Liberty carries whatever the hell it is she carries.

She greeted the young couple, but kept a lot of personal space around her. She extended her arm stiffly and gave firm handshakes, and then they all went inside.

I thought about trying to go in and sit way in the back, but I had no idea how this place operated. I hadn't been to a whole lot of churches, but I knew some places made you lift up your hands and go crazy, and others made you tell everybody how the lord came into your life in ways that usually sounded a little fruity. If this place was similar, I'd have to stand in front of everybody to give my story, and then I'd be discovered.

I waited until everyone was inside, and then I sneaked up to Gertie's big yellow car. I looked around in every direction for passers-by, and then when I saw no one, I plastered my face against the driver's side window. There was the over-flowing ashtray and the expected layer of cigarette ash on the dashboard. There was the half-expected, wadded-up underwear on the passenger's side floorboard. But what caught my attention was a slender cardboard box sitting on the passenger's seat whose lid was lying off to the side. It appeared to be full of business cards. I decided to risk setting off the car alarm, if she had one, and pulled on the handle. The door opened without a sound. I reached in and pulled a card out of the box. In elaborate, gold lettering, it said: Ms. Elliot: Finding homes for good people. Below, in smaller font, was written "Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O LORD of hosts, my King, and my God. Psalms 83:3."

I felt a natural reflex to reach for the panties, but I fought it off by making my hand go to the glove compartment. When I opened it, packs of condoms came pouring out. As I was picking them up off the floorboard and stuffing them back in, my hand struck something hard. I pushed aside a few condoms, and there I saw a small, black handgun. I'd never held one before. I picked it up and felt its weight in my hand. It immediately made me feel like I was up to something dangerous and intriguing. I aimed it at an imaginary bad guy and gave my best scowl.

"Give me the money, cocksucker!" I said, several times, accenting it different ways. "Give me the money, cocksucker! Give me the money, cocksucker. Give me the money, cocksucker." That last one didn't really work. It probably would have confused the dude I was aiming the gun at and ruined the moment. Even people who are about to croak have a strong sense of decorum.

I put the gun back and covered it up with condoms. When I shut the glove box, I saw the panties again. I snatched them up and stuck them in my pocket. Then I shut the car door and sneaked back over to the Charger.

The service lasted about an hour. Gertie came walking out frailly with the young couple, who looked all smiles. She walked them over to their car, gave a hug to the woman this time, and watched them drive away. Then she headed over to the Eldorado, now with a quicker stride and the familiar shake. She tore out of the parking lot and drove back to the PCH, sucking away at her tobacco cock.

The Eldorado started swerving more dangerously than normal as she drove south along the coast. Gertie slid back and forth in her seat a little and then, with cigarette still in mouth, tried to lift her dress over her head to take it off. The air rushing into the window plastered the yellow fabric against her face. She started gesticulating wildly and entered into oncoming traffic, where a group of motorcyclists on Harleys spread out like a school of fish avoiding a shark attack. As Gertie pulled the dress off her face, her car veered back into the right lane. She looked around to see what all the honking had been about, giving everyone the finger at the same time. Then she reached behind her and fished some clothes off the back seat. She pulled a tank top on and then wiggled into what I assume was a mini skirt, more or less without putting anyone's life in danger.

When she arrived in Santa Monica, she pulled into the left-hand exit lane to drive up the cliff. I started to switch lanes to get behind her, but someone driving up fast on my left honked and prevented me from getting over in time. I had no choice but to keep driving, so I exited near the pier and drove up to Ocean Avenue, hoping if I turned north I could catch up with her. I circled around the Promenade several times, but there was no sign of her.

I was in the mood to give up for the day. I knew she wasn't headed home immediately, so if I wanted to continue following her, I was going to have to wait at her house and hope that she would stop by between errands. The week had been exhausting, so I was thinking I needed a day off to relax and think about how I was going to handle this situation now that Gertie knew who I was.

6

I drove to Dennis' house to hang out with my dad. He was doing pretty well, but I figured I should take him out somewhere for the day so that he wouldn't get too sick of staying in the same neighborhood all the time. I decided he might like to say hello to his old buddies in Venice, so we got in the Charger with the big poodle and took off.

When we arrived, I bought some tacos to go. We scarfed them down while sitting on the beach. It was the first time I had really relaxed all week. As I stretched my legs out in the sun, I noticed that Dennis' clothes were looser than before. At first I thought it was because of the extra room I had now that all my schlong hair had been yanked out, but even my waist line felt thinner. It must have been all the coffee and moving around. I had also skipped several meals this week, and I hadn't had time to drink any booze either.

On the beach the big poodle was a chick magnet. They couldn't resist giving him a pat, and when they did, I tried to imagine that he was like an extension of me, as if the girls were coming over to tell me how cute I was. That was a big ego boost.

I took my dad over to the picnic table where he used to play chess. There was a homeless dude with his chess pieces set up waiting to play. The pieces were all dirty, and they clearly had been put together from several incomplete sets. The guy himself looked like he had been put together from several incomplete humans. He grinned at us as we arrived. He looked like what Einstein would have looked like if he had gone nuts and tried his luck at professional boxing. My dad looked at me as if he was waiting for me to do something.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Put shampoo on him, too," he said.

"I don't think he'll let me. Hey buddy. You like shampoo?" I asked, shaking my head no sneaky-like so my dad couldn't see it. He smiled and shook his head no. "Sorry Dad. No deal. You wanna play Stinky here or not?"

"I play for money, after shampoo."

I led him over to where he used to do his sculptures. He didn't want to do that either. I had a real homeless prima donna on my hands now.

We walked down to muscle beach and watched the steroid dudes sweat everywhere. Then I bought a few new Arnolds since I was, after all, at the place he used to hang out. I told my dad to pick out some T-shirts too, but he kept choosing tie-dyed Obama shirts with pot leaves all over them. I had no idea the president smoked so much weed. I didn't let my dad buy them because he would have really stuck out in Dennis' neighborhood walking around like that. He settled for a shirt that had a beer-drinking mule in overalls on it.

7

When we got home he wanted to go straight to the internet chess, but I told him he had to get shampooed up first. I didn't think he'd do it alone, but after a little hesitation he took a shower by himself.

I went out to the Mercedes and got the parabolic microphone out of the trunk. I took it inside and replaced the batteries. The sound crackled a little more than it used to, and I got an occasional shock on the hand, but at least it worked.

That afternoon I was flipping through the channels when Spieldburt's shark movie came on. I was thinking I had underestimated this Hollywood bozo. Maybe he wasn't all cute alien after all. Here was a guy who had made a movie about a monster swimming around tearing people's limbs off, and I was starting to think that I was like one of those swimmers who had no idea where the shark was or when they'd see it again. Actually, some of those guys in the movie at least had boats and radar to find their shark. My Sharkburt was protected by guards and an uppity New-England prick. And what if he never even decided to come up for a bite? How was I going to get my money?

That night back at my place I decided to hit Tommy up for the next month's rent. It was a little early, but I had given him unlimited use of my car, so I was sure he wouldn't mind. I knocked on his door. I didn't wait for him to answer because it would have taken him too long to find the words.

Tommy was sitting at a little desk he had recently bought, typing away on his computer.

"Hi Tommy," I said.

"L.O.," he answered. I looked over his shoulder at what he was typing. It was a lot of math stuff that looked pretty complicated.

"What are you working on?"

"Computair program," he said, with all the stress on the wrong syllables.

"What kind?" His eyes started wandering around, so I knew he was looking for words. He looked around longer than usual, so I figured I'd throw him a bone and change the subject. "Do you have the rent? It's early, so if you don't, that's cool."

"Rent? Oh yes. Rent, I 'ave rent." He began rifling through the drawers of his desk. While he was doing that, I got a tickle in my nose, and I knew I was going to have to sneeze. I looked around, but there were no tissues in his room. I reached into my pocket and felt something soft. I took it out just in time, sneezed all over it, and was getting ready to put it back in my pocket when I saw that it was Gertie's sexy underwear. I kind of freaked out because I had just jammed my nose into an old lady's thong, so I tossed it like a hot potato. It landed on Tommy's unmade bed. He finally found his checkbook, so he turned around and rolled closer to me in his office chair.

"'Ow do I, uh, fill up ze check?" he asked. He didn't look over toward his bed, and even if he had, he probably wouldn't have noticed anything. His sheets were the same color as the underwear—fire-truck red.

I showed Tommy how to fill out the check, all the while waiting for the moment I could step over to his bed and grab the thong. He needed help with almost everything, so I couldn't step away. When he got done writing, he tore off the check and handed it to me. Then he just sat there looking at me, waiting to see if I needed anything else.

"Well, thanks Tommy. Oh, by the way, a woman is coming tomorrow. Let her in the house. Tomorrow, let the woman in the house, okay?"

"Okay."

I backed out of the room, eyeing that little thong, and shut the door.

I was tired and wanted to go to bed, but I hung out in the living room with the big poodle, hoping that Tommy would step out long enough for me to run in and grab the goods. He never came out, and I ended up dozing off. When I woke up on the couch it was 3am, and the light in Tommy's room was still on. I could hear him typing away, so I gave up and went to bed.

8

I woke up late the next morning. The first thing I did was go over to Tommy's door. I opened it and peeked in, hoping he'd be at his morning classes, but he was sleeping away. I couldn't see the thong anymore because he had rolled around in the sheets. Maybe he hadn't seen anything, but I was seriously worried because if he found it, he might think I had been doing in his bed, and then he'd move out and I'd never find a tenant willing to do all the housework.

I walked over to Dennis' and got ready for my lunch with Helen. I put on the best clothes Dennis had, combed my hair, and made some final adjustments in the mirror. I had to admit that I was looking better than ever. I wasn't expecting any miracles, but I figured that Helen would be curious enough to talk to me for a while.

I got to Culver City early and parked in the Westside Pavilion Mall's underground parking lot. I took the escalator up to the three-story Barnes & Noble and ordered a big coffee. I sat next to the windows that overlooked Pico and Westwood and watched the traffic roll by.

I was surrounded by students from UCLA. They were taking up almost all of the tables, sitting around with piles of books and their laptops. I was pretty impressed by all the effort they were making until I realized what was really going on. Most of the girls were all dolled up and the guys were checking them out every time they looked up from their work. This was like some sort of modern bar, a club where people flashed the goods—"look at me with my biology book. I could be a doctor someday. Shallst we get with the doing?" As I continued to watch these people, I could tell that they were used to seeing each other there all the time. When one of the guys would give up studying for the day, he'd usually walk over to a table of chicks and say something like "oh man, I think I need a break. You wanna get some air?" which I thought was weird. Where were they going to get air in L.A.? But there was always some chick who wanted to go. I realized I had been way wrong all my life, thinking that alcohol needed to be in the mix somewhere. These kids had replaced the booze with books and the results were just as good.

One kid near me was reading a book about writing screenplays. The author on the cover looked like a tough guy. His name was Syd. I was tempted to tell this kid that he was hanging out in the wrong coffee place, that he needed to go over to my usual hang out. But maybe over there was like the big leagues and this place was the pee-wee leagues. He'd have to hone his skills and find a good-luck charm before he could fit in over there.

At noon I went down the street to La Serenata. It didn't look like much from the outside, but inside it was nice and cozy. It was Helen's favorite restaurant. I got a table by the window so we'd be able to people watch, and I sat around waiting for her.

She arrived twenty minutes later. I knew she'd be late because there's never parking on Pico Boulevard at noon. She probably had to drive to the very bottom level of the Pavilion parking lot before she could find a spot. She walked through the doorway and looked over the whole room until she found me. She looked wonderfully simple, the kind of simple that only a woman making a lot of effort can come up with. She had on jeans and a sort of hippy-looking white shirt with a square collar and long sleeves. The material was so light that you could almost make out the color of her skin. When she stepped over I stood up, and she gave me a little hug and smiled.

"Hi Lon. Wow, you look nice!" she said.

"You too." She had put on just enough perfume so that you could only smell it if you were very close. This was something I always appreciated about Helen. Most women have this all wrong. They put on four or five squirts of strong perfume, and it wafts all around the room, attacking the nostrils of people who they'll never even talk to. Helen put on only a light mist, so as you drew nearer for whatever reason, you got a little whiff of it, and that made you want to continue getting closer. It was like she was rewarding you for moving in the right direction.

Helen never needed to look at the menu at this place. She always wanted chicken sopes, which was cool because I got to pretend to be a classy guy who always knew what his date wanted and could order for her. But me, I never knew what I wanted, so I took the menu in my hands and looked over everything. I could tell that she was people watching, but after a while she looked over at me and examined my new look. When I finally chose what I wanted—empanadas—I set the menu down and saw her smiling.

"That must have really hurt, taking all that hair off," she said and laughed.

"When I went to the place, I thought they were going to use scissors. Then they ambushed me with the wax before I knew what was going on."

"It really looks good, though. It makes you look a lot thinner."

"Actually, I've been losing weight. I haven't been meaning to, it's just that I've been really busy running around all over the place. But the worst thing, damn...I figured there's no one else I could tell but you. It was when they got me down there," I said, pointing down.

"No!"

"Oh yeah. But you know, I love it. I got lots of room, and it's like I'm—" I started to say it was like I was several inches longer, but she cut me off.

"Lonnie, I think it's funny that you did that, but I'm not ready for that yet. It was really sweet that you made that much effort for today, but I want this to stay a lunch thing. We need to take it slow."

"No, it's not like that—I understand. I didn't do this for you. I did this because I'm trying to get some photos of an old pervy chick in action. That's why I drive around the nice cars now. She's a complete freak. I found a gun under all the condoms in her glove compartment yesterday. I don't—"

Suddenly there was no one sitting in front of me. As the pain from the slap I had just received spread over my cheek, the memory of the event came back. With one lightning-fast twist, she had slapped me hard, got out of her chair, and run out the door. Everyone in the restaurant was looking at me like I was a slime bag. I left the restaurant and looked up and down Pico, but with all the people I couldn't tell what direction she had taken. I decided to search the Pavilion parking lot, starting from the bottom level. I took the escalators three floors down, looked everywhere, and then checked the other levels. I had missed her, if she had been there at all.

9

I got in the charger and drove over to Dennis' place. I was feeling horrible, and what I really wanted to do was drink myself unconscious. But I was going to have to talk to Gertie at some point, and if I got all sloshed and said something stupid, she'd probably stop taking me seriously.

When I entered the courtyard, I saw the big poodle chewing on an envelope. I was going to let him eat Dennis' mail when I saw that it was marked "Mr. Bates," with no address written below. Someone had hand delivered it. I snatched it out of Ballsack's mouth, wiped the saliva on the grass and opened it up. It was a letter from "Mr. Stevens."

Dear Mr. Bates, I would like to meet with you to discuss the case. I hope you have made progress. Meet me at the Apple Store on the Third Street Promenade tonight at 8 o'clock. Do not look for me. Wait in front of the most expensive laptop in the store. I'll find you and stand at the neighboring laptop. I will be wearing a disguise. Wait for me to talk to you. I'll arrive sometime before the store closes.

I was finally going to be able to hit Sharkburt up for some money. At the same time, I was going to warn him about that gun and make him give me a way to get in touch with him. I'd had enough of all this waiting.

My dad had a fresh block of chocolate out and was carving away. I ate lunch and watched him. It was amazing how much detail he was putting into it. He was sculpting some dude. He had a rough outline of the body done and had started working on the hair by the time I finished eating.

It had been a while since I had straightened up the living room, so I took out all the empty pizza boxes and to-go bags and swept the floor. I also washed the blankets my dad was using to sleep on the couch.

Then I realized that it had been stupid not to go straight to my place after the restaurant, since I could have caught up with Gertie. I decided to head over there and see if she had left Tommy a note for me.

I walked back with the big poodle so that he could get some exercise. When we made it to my street, I saw Gertie's yellow Eldorado parked in front of my house. Maybe I had gotten lucky and she had just arrived. Then a new addition to my yard gave me a shock: Gertie had already planted her real-estate sign. I suddenly felt like a conquered country under the reign of Gertitious the Terrible. I was going to take care of this pronto.

I walked in my front door, expecting to see her in my living room. She wasn't there, so I looked in my room, the bathroom, the kitchen, and then the back patio. She wasn't anywhere. She must have been off looking at the neighbors' houses, which would surely have something to do with the value of mine. No problem, I'd just wait for her to get back.

In the meantime, I walked over to Tommy's door. I didn't hear anything, so I turned the knob as slowly as I could. It was locked. Damn—he'd never locked his door before. He must have found the underwear and got upset. I was definitely going to have to do some serious explaining, and even then, I couldn't imagine him believing me. "Hey Tommy, I was going to sneeze, so I accidentally did it on some old-lady thong and was so surprised that I threw it on your bed." No way was that going to fly. Tommy was a rock-'n-roll kind of guy, so I'd just have to tell him that some chick I brought home mistook his room for mine and got undressed in there before I realized it. That sounded stupid, too, but maybe it would sound better to someone who could only understand every fourth or fifth word.

I sat down on the couch and turned on the tube, occasionally glancing out the window to look for Gertie. Then I heard Tommy's door opening, so I got ready to do my groveling.

"Tommy, I'm really sorry," I said as I stood up and turned around. Not in a million years would I have imagined that I would one day see such a sight. It was Gertie, coming out of Tommy's room, wearing only his white Ratt T-shirt. Through the doorway I could see Tommy asleep in his bed. Gertie made a beeline over to the kitchen, and as she walked, her unsupported boobs swung in circles, crashing together as they arrived at the center. As she entered the kitchen, I got the view from behind. The shirt didn't cover the bottom of her butt cheeks, so I was able to make out the tattoo I had noticed at the open house. It was a tattoo of an owl with its wings spread open and its talons forward, as if it were about to grab a defenseless little critter.

I heard the fridge open and shut, and then I heard a bottle cap bounce on the counter top. She came out taking a big swig of beer, which made her shirt rise up a lot, and I could see that Gertie had also been to the beautician recently. She noticed me on the couch, but made no effort to lower the beer any faster than she would have had she not been showing me the Gertuda triangle.

"How was lunch?" she asked in a whisper.

I stuttered incoherently, trying to recover from the shock.

"Hey, don't you worry. I've got plenty of ideas for your house. I spent a good hour looking over everything before..." she said, tailing off with a little smile.

"You didn't hit him over the head or anything, did you?"

"Oh please. You know what this little pervert did? I introduced myself when I arrived, and he started giving me some obscene lip signals. I figured he was just harmlessly flirting, so I went about my business. I walked through the neighborhood and the backyard, and then went through the house. When I got to his room, he was there waiting for me, typing away at his computer."

"He always stays in his room. He's writing some kind of computer software."

"Well, I started measuring his room and guess what? He had snatched a pair of my underwear from my car, and I won't even tell you what he had done with them. I'm going to have to throw them out. They were lying right there on his bed. I picked them up and put them right in his face and he started giving me the lip action again. I can put up with a lot of flirting, but after you tempt The Gert that much, you'd better come up with the goods. And believe me, he was up to the challenge."

"But—" I said a little louder than I had intended.

"Shh" she interrupted, putting her finger up to her mouth. "I want him to rest. I'm not done with him yet." She turned, went into Tommy's room and shut the door, purposefully swinging that ass more now that she knew I was there.

I was feeling conflicted. On the one hand, this was a good thing for me professionally. I could now tell Spieldburt without hesitation that his lover was getting it on with other people. It'd be no problem getting a picture of those two in bed. I'd just plant a little camera in there and record a movie. That meant my work was almost done, except for the stalling-for-more-money part. But on the other hand, I was worried about my roomy. If he had just been man raped, would he stick around and get all weird on me, or would he hightail it home, taking his fabulous rent checks with him? These questions were even more important than the lint one, which also involved him.

As I pondered these important matters, it dawned on me that 'The Gert' would soon be making who knows what kind of noises in my spare bedroom, any one of which could cause me to never want to go in there again, so I grabbed the big poodle's leash and took him for a very long walk. We walked along Ocean Avenue, down to the pier, along the beach a little, and then came back. I made sure that the Eldorado was gone before entering my house.

I went into my bathroom to give my teeth a brushing. As I was rinsing, I heard Tommy's door open. I went over to my door fast to check how he was, but I only saw him from behind as he was entering the guest bathroom, and he was completely naked. Was this how he always walked around when he thought I wasn't home, or was he in some kind of Gertie-induced breeding trance? I was kind of freaked out, but it was perhaps now or never to answer the lint enigma. I grabbed a coke and a washcloth from the kitchen, and then ran over to the middle of the path he'd have to cross to get back to his room. Then I purposefully spilled a little coke on the carpet. When I heard the toilet flush, I made like I was trying to clean up the spot. Out came naked Tommy, and I saw something I'd never seen before: he didn't look like me. I mean, his unit had like a coat on or something. It was as if he was trying to hide the mushroom. He jumped when he saw me, which made the situation worse.

"Ah!" he yelled. He reached down below his belly and tried to cover himself as he ran back to his room and slammed the door.

I couldn't get the image of that weird, raincoat-wearing schlong out of my head. I thought over everything I knew about him, and I realized it all made sense now. That weird dong of his was a symbol for his life. He was hiding who he really was, hiding behind a foreskin of crappy English and heavy metal. When was he going to reveal what he really was? And how would I know when he did?

This was weirding me out. I went over to Tommy's door to diffuse the situation.

"Sorry about that, Tommy. Hey, let's just forget about it, okay?" I heard a muffled "okay" from behind the door. I was about to ask him about Gertie when the doorbell rang. I crossed the living room and opened the door. It was Tim, holding a six pack of microbrew that I was sure he'd use to insult Budweiser sooner or later.

"Hello neighbor! Or should I say 'soon-to-be-ex neighbor'? I saw the real-estate sign outside on my way home and thought this would be the perfect time for that drink I mentioned a while back. Sorry I haven't come over sooner, but I've been swamped at work."

"No problem. I've been busy also. Come on in."

He walked in and set the beers on the coffee table. He took two out of the cardboard pack and stood there looking at me. That was my cue to go get the bottle opener. I had forgotten that with these special microbrews, the beer is so unique and better than what you normally drink that it makes twist tops impossible. I went into the kitchen, grabbed the opener, and then joined him on the couch. I watched him open them, thinking that I honestly didn't want to drink anything. It'd been a while since I'd had a drink, and I was more on a coffee thing at the moment. But since he had gone to the trouble of bringing it over and was, after all, the only neighbor who would miss me if I left, I clinked beer bottles with him and took a long swig.

The beer hit me hard. I could feel the alcohol descend into my stomach and then spread out to my limbs, warming and numbing me at the same time.

"So what's the story?" Tim asked.

"I'm looking into my options now. Thinking about ways I can make more money."

"And the fact that Helen moved out doesn't have anything to do with you considering selling the place? It's got to be difficult for you to stay here now. I know how hard it can be to move on when you still live in the place where you have so many communal memories." We both took long swigs of beer. I've always been a fast drinker, no matter what I'm drinking. Tim noticed that my beer was almost gone and he opened another one for me.

"I'm not ready to give up on Helen yet. I just saw her today, actually."

"And how did it go?" he asked. I didn't want to explain the misunderstanding, so I just sat there looking dejected. To break up the silence, I finished my beer and grabbed the newly opened one. I was aware of how pathetic this made me look.

"Just don't push her to the point she calls the cops," he said. I was going to tell him it wasn't like that, but she had slapped me after all. I smiled, held up the beer and nodded as if to say "amen, brother," and took a long swig.

"Are you looking to buy somewhere else?" he asked.

"I don't know. I'm renting out the spare room now, so at the least I'm going to find out if there's a way I can make more money on that. Who knows...maybe I'll look into buying another house and paying for it with the rent I can get from this place." I was amazed at how smart that sounded. Sometimes in life, all you need to do is pretend to be smart and then do whatever the fake, smart you comes up with.

"That's a good idea, especially now. You should look into all the foreclosures. There are lots of steals right now."

Tommy finally showed himself, this time wearing clothes to cover up his hidden mushroom. Tim stood up and shook his hand before I could warn him not to. That hand had been in some scary places recently.

"I'm Tim, your neighbor."

"Tommy, neighbor," said Tommy.

"Would you like a beer?" asked Tim, and I could see from the enthusiasm of his response that Tommy really needed a drink. Tim opened two more, I had assumed for Tommy and himself, but he handed the first to Tommy and slid the other one over in front of me. Is this really how people saw me? Three beers in less than five minutes? Before, maybe that would have been my normal pace when someone brought over free booze, but now that I wasn't used to it anymore, my brain was really starting to slosh around.

For the next fifteen minutes, Tim asked Tommy polite and very boring questions about living in France and being a foreigner in the U.S. Tommy answered these questions pretty well. He must have been asked the same questions many times before, but I got the feeling he was happy to be able to say stuff.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Tommy." He took out the last beer, opened it up, and slid it over to me. "Don't move out of here without coming over for a goodbye dinner."

"Of course. Thanks again for the beer."

"No problem. It's so much better than that sock juice Budweiser tries to pawn off on us. They think they can put a can of anything in a blond bimbo's hand and we'll drink it," he said, finally, and then got up and left.

Tommy and I were alone on the couch. I was wondering what he wanted to talk about more—his weird member or getting man raped. Then he got this goofy grin on his face and geared up to speak.

"I 'ave friend now. Ze girl, she give me love like I've nevair seen, whew! But she is... no seventeen," he said, kind of singing that middle part. I guess he was feeling inspired. Whatever kept us from having to talk about what had happened earlier.

"Yeah, she's definitely not seventeen. Maybe seventeen times four," I said. "Hey, drink up. There's another beer there."

"No tank you. I 'ave much beer to terminate," he said, assassinating another gulp. I took the last beer. I really didn't want it, but it was open and those were the rules. I wasn't going to waste a perfectly good beer when there was probably someone dying of thirst in a desert at that very moment.

I turned on the tube and began to zone out. The alcohol made me feel all warm and sleepy, but I knew I had to keep fighting to stay up. And then I forgot why I needed to fight to stay up. I flipped through the channels a little, thinking I'd find a movie to fall asleep to. A commercial for iPod came on, the one with those colorful shadows holding iPods and dancing around. Then I remembered: Spieldburt at the Apple store! I looked at the clock. It was almost 8pm. I thought about asking Tommy for a ride in my car, but the time it would have taken to explain all that would have made me even later. I threw on my shoes and took off.

10

I got to the Promenade at fifteen after. I walked over to the Apple store, with its white logo and stainless-steel paneling. I went inside and made my way over to the laptops. There was a huge crowd of people looking at them. I had to get in line and wait while people tested them. When I finally got to the front and found the most expensive one, I was seriously relieved.

I played around on the laptop until everybody around me got so impatient that they started complaining about how annoying I was. I figured that with everyone paying so much attention to me, Spieldburt would never risk coming over, so I left my place and started walking around the store. By closing time he still hadn't arrived, so I had no choice but to give up and leave.

On the way home, I stopped at Starbucks and ordered a coffee. I had to re-establish the good, caffed-up me and flush the alcohol out of my system. I had the coffee guy throw several shots of espresso into a dark-roast. I was amazed at how much coffee lingo I knew now.

I walked back to Dennis' house through the cool ocean breeze, my coffee keeping me warm from the inside, and I thought about my current situation. I now had an enormous problem. What if Spieldburt had arrived at the store on time, waited around for ten minutes, and taken off angry that I wasn't there? That would definitely have been bad for me. I tried to convince myself that he hadn't come at all because of some movie crap. I really wanted to think I was going to make some money, especially now that I knew everything I needed to know about Gertie.

I went back to Dennis' house to see if Sharkburt had left me a message. I turned on the outside light and looked around the courtyard while Ballsack followed me playfully. I didn't find an envelope, but the possibility that the big poodle could have eaten it crossed my mind. This was the first time I was happy to know that I'd be able to feel what he had eaten in my hands the next morning when I walked him.

Inside, my dad was playing chess. He looked up when I came in, which surprised me. Normally he just kept playing or sculpting without paying much attention to me.

"Talking man broke the window," he said.

"What? What window? What man?"

"The kitchen window," he said.

I went back to the kitchen, and sure enough one of the panes of glass in the kitchen door had been smashed in and broken glass was scattered on the floor. There was also a lot of blood on the jagged shards that remained in the frame.

"Hey Dad, you didn't cut yourself, did you?" I called toward the living room.

"No, talking man cut himself."

"What do you mean?"

"He wanted to open the door. I went over to the door to watch him. He saw me. He yelled and cut his hand, then ran away."

"Don't let people open the doors! If you see somebody doing that, call me immediately, okay? It's an emergency when that happens."

I found a broom in one of the closets and swept up all the broken glass. Then I covered up the busted pane with cardboard and duct tape. I was going to have to call a repairman.

That night I tried to sleep at Dennis' house in case someone came back to break in again. I wasn't very comfortable there to tell the truth, and the big poodle kept jolting up every time I moved around, as if he were ready to head over to my place. I was still feeling the effects of the huge coffee, so I had a lot of trouble sleeping. At around three in the morning, when I was pretty sure no intruder was coming back, I took Ballsack to my place, and after a little bit of frog barking, I fell asleep.

11

The next morning, I lay in bed a long time, thinking about what I could do next. I wanted to clear up the situation with Helen, but the more I thought about it, the more ridiculous my possible explanations seemed. She'd never believe I was working as a P.I., following Sharkburt's lover around. I couldn't show her a single piece of evidence that I'd ever even talked to Spieldburt. And that brought me to my second problem: how long was I going to have to wait for him to contact me again?

I gave the big poodle a good walk around the neighborhood. After he had done his business, I put on the old hand condoms and scooped it up. As I was mashing it around to make sure there were no partly digested envelope scraps in there, a woman passed me on the sidewalk with her chihuahua. She looked at me sympathetically, as if this poo scooping somehow gave us a common denominator. I shrugged my shoulders, turned the gloves inside out to wrap up the steamy mound, and went on my way.

12

I had to turn the tables on this Sharkburt situation. Unfortunately, that meant I was going to have to see that uppity, wormy assistant out in Glendale. I prepared for a long stakeout and drove with the big poodle out near Spieldburt's studio, where I took up position at the outdoor Starbucks tables. I scribbled around on the blank sheets of paper I had brought, mainly as an excuse to wad them up and shoot them at a nearby trash can. Occasionally I would walk the dog around the area, always keeping an eye out for Grant's rusty, metallic-blue hatchback, but I didn't see it that day.

It dawned on me, as I was creeping home in the long line of exhaust fumes, that Sharkburt probably had many assistants, and that they probably took turns getting the coffee. Who knew how many days it would take for me to run into Grant again?

For the next three days I kept the same routine, hoping to see Grant. The amount of money I was spending on coffee was insane. It was like going to a bar, except I wasn't drunk so I realized how much cash I was blowing.

On the fourth day, Grant pulled up in his hatchback. I hadn't been able to put my finger on why I had got a weird vibe from his car, but now I realized: why was a guy who thought he was better than everybody driving a shitty car? It made him seem even more like a pretentious dickhead, because if he had really been as important as he thought, he wouldn't have been driving such a piece of garbage. In fact, maybe that was why he was so arrogant—he had to compensate for the car.

I stood up and waited for him to come over. I put a big, goofy grin on my face to hide my annoyance at having to talk to him again. I was looking right at him with my toothy smile, but he just walked on by without acknowledging me. I was sure he had seen me and was just making this as difficult as possible. I tied the big poodle to a table and followed him in.

I got right behind him and made several throat-clearing noises. He pretended to glance at something near me, and then, as if I had caught his attention, he looked at me, both eyebrows slightly raised, his eyes half closed and his head cocked to the side. Then, he exhaled loudly.

"Oh, it's you," he said.

"Grant, hey! I thought I'd buy you a little coffee and tell you my idea for a movie that your boss will love."

"You are buying the coffee, right?"

"Yep."

"All right. But I make no promises," he said, turning around to face forward. I waited for him to pay attention, but he just stood there as if I weren't trying to talk to him.

"I'm waiting," he said without turning toward me.

"Okay. It's about a guy who is house sitting for a private detective. While he's taking care of the house, he goes snooping around in all the rooms, trying on the detective's clothes and messing with his stuff. Then, a mysterious man in a trench coat comes to the house, wanting to pay big money for a job. The house-sitting guy likes money, so he pretends to be the detective and takes the job. He ends up following this wild old nympho, and stuff gets crazy," I said with as much enthusiasm as I could manage.

Grant moved up to the cash register and ordered. He didn't seem to have heard what I'd said.

"So what do you think?" I asked.

"People who have ideas like yours should never, ever write them down. You're still going to pay for this, aren't you?" he said, looking at me finally.

I paid for the four coffees and followed him out. I had to try one more time before he got away.

The big poodle was looking right at me all excited and wagging when I came out. In fact, every time I left his sight, even for a second, he would get super happy when I came back. I think his perception of time was all messed up. When I walked passed him toward Grant, he started whimpering and pulling at the table.

"Hey, wait just a minute," I said to Grant. "Let me untie Ballsack here."

Grant stopped and turned around to face me.

"You named your dog that?"

"Well, he is kind of hairy and roundish."

"I have a masters in French literature. He's my favorite author," he said. Then he looked off toward nothing and started spouting some French crap with one hand raised in the air. When he started speaking English again, he said something weird about how he had cried the first time he got through a pair of Oreos. Maybe I had misjudged this guy—he seemed more like a nutcase than a prick.

"Look," he continued. "I don't meet very many people in this business who appreciate real literature, so forgive me if I thought you were just another fraud. You write out a few scenes and bring them to me to look over. If I like them, I'll show them to Steven."

I thought about asking him why I couldn't talk to Spieldburt directly, but from the way Grant had said it, I knew I was supposed to act like he was doing me an enormous favor.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," I said. He gave me his number, walked over to the hatchback and drove off.

13

I drove back to Dennis' house to make sure the guy I had called to fix the window pane had done his job. Everything looked good, and the new chain lock I had also asked for was in place. I told my dad to use it whenever I wasn't home. As long as the talking man didn't knock on the door and politely ask my dad if he could come in and steal something, I felt confident that this would keep him out.

Since Gertie hadn't called me in a while, I was wondering if she had decided to start using Tommy to give me messages. Giving a guy who had massive trouble talking important messages seemed stupid, but when I thought about it, I realized it was exactly the kind of thing Gertie would do. No matter what her idea was, I would be so excited to have successfully beaten it out of Tommy that I'd probably say yes to it.

I headed home and found Tommy in the yard cleaning off Gertie's picture on the real-estate sign with a paper towel and a squirt bottle. His right hand was bandaged up a little.

"Hi Tommy," I said.

"Hhheh-lo," he wheezed.

"Wow. Nice pronunciation."

"Gairtee 'elp me. Hhheh-elp me."

"Speaking of 'Gairtee'—she leave me any messages?"

"Leaves," he said. "I leave, you leave, he she it leaves."

"I don't know how they talk in England. This is America, pal," I said, but he just smiled away like he was proud of himself. "Messages? From Gertie? For me?" I asked, pointing to myself.

"No."

Then something started seeming fishy to me. In fact, I'd been asking myself questions about this guy ever since I had learned of the concealment—the mushroom hiding. But now, I had something strange I could ask about.

"Say, Tommy—what's up with the bandage?" I asked, holding up my right hand and wiggling my fingers to show him what I meant.

"I hhhave tapping computair much. Hhhand has pain."

I went inside and thought all this over for a while. Was my dad capable of irony? Of calling Tommy by the name of the main thing he couldn't do well? Tommy, the Talking Man? And why would Tommy want to break into Dennis' house? The only thing I could imagine was that Gertie was somehow involved in all this. Maybe she had recognized me during one of the stakeouts. Maybe she had been playing me for some time now. Maybe she had followed me out to Glendale...Why else would she not have called me over the last four days?

I didn't feel safe in my own house anymore. I was going to have to watch what I said from now on. I decided to start feeding him false information just in case I was right. I'd tell him I'd been spending my days at Universal Studios, Disney Land, or Dodger games.

After dinner, the Mushroom Concealer sat down on the couch with me. He had a piece of paper in his hand. It was folded over in half, but with one hand he opened it just enough to sneak peeks at what he had written. He did this when he thought I was looking at the TV.

"Hhhave you...evair bean to anozair coontree?" he asked.

"I accidentally crossed the Mexican border once." He looked like he was trying to process this information, and when enough time had passed he nodded to himself. Then he waited a while and sneaked another peek at his sheet.

"Did you evair...no, no 'evair.' Did you go to the ceenaymuh...uh...last week?"

"No, I was...," I started to say, but stopped myself before I told him I was at the Starbucks all week. This guy was good. "Yes, I did go to the cinema. I enjoyed it a lot." I waited for the eventual nod of comprehension.

"Hhhave you evair meet a famoos pairson?"

That was it. I jumped up from the couch and snatched the paper out of his bandaged hand.

"What are you after, Talking Man? I know you're hiding something!" I looked at the list of questions, written under the cryptic rubric "preterit versus pp", whatever that meant. He wanted to know everything: "Have you ever lived abroad, gone scuba diving, had a car accident, or ridden a horse? Did you go on vacation, buy a car, see a concert, or eat Italian food—last week, last month, last year?" What was he going to do with this information?

He looked at me curiously. I realized that to him, the scene had looked more like this: Lonnie jumps up, takes the paper quickly, and then says "What blah blah blah, blah blah! I blah blah blah something!" This was a good thing because it gave me time to calm down.

"You got a pen?" I asked and made a gesture with my hand like I was writing something. He gave me an understanding look, fished a pen out of his pocket, and then looked happily at the sheet of paper to see what I was going to write.

"We don't say 'fay-MOOS.' It's like this," I said and wrote "FAY-mus" on his sheet. He repeated it a couple of times. I gave the sheet back to him and sat down. He continued with the questions, and I lied every time. But I made like I didn't suspect anything because if he noticed I was on to him, I'd never be able find out what was going on.

Gertie didn't call me the next day either. I left her several messages saying I wanted to talk to her soon, but I got nothing. Once again it felt like I was waiting on everyone else to come up to the surface and pull me under—Sharkburt or Sharkgert. I had to take action. So far, the only person I was sure wasn't out to screw me was Grant, although I didn't exactly know why. That was the angle I was going to have to play, like it or not.

14

The next day I put on comfortable clothes to compliment my Arnold and headed over to the Barnes & Noble at the Pavilion Mall. I roamed around the three floors until I found the writing section. I rifled through the shelves, knocking a few books off in the process, until I found that movie-writing book I'd seen the other day by that Syd guy. I took it over to the coffee section, bought a big brew, and found an empty table surrounded by lots of hot chicks. I figured if the book started making me tired, I could look over and imagine the doing to wake me up.

I had thought this book was going to be about a bunch of fruity literature crap, but it didn't have any of that. This Syd guy had been in some sort of gang before he started writing the movies. I spent the entire day pouring over his book, and since I planned to come back and read more the next day, I stained the page I was on with a little coffee so I'd know where to start up again.

It didn't take me much longer to finish the book. I arrived early the next morning and hit it hard until the afternoon. I skipped over most of the examples because I'd already seen the movies, but what I paid attention to was the part where he said that one of the hardest things to do was not to describe too much stuff, because you didn't want to step on the director's toes. Finally, someone in life telling me to do less. The only part that seemed annoying was the format, but I figured Spieldburt wouldn't care as long as it was close.

15

I wasn't too far from Culver City, so I decided to visit my writer buddies and see if Gertie was going to drop by her office.

All the guys were typing away. I wanted to tell them that I understood what they were doing now, but that would've exposed my earlier fraud. I sat down at a table. I hadn't brought my writing stuff, so I just sat there looking over toward Gertie's office.

USC-Shirt Jake leaned back in his chair, took his fingers off the keyboard and wiggled them, then exhaled loudly. He tilted his head around in a circle like he was trying to stretch. He looked over and saw me doing nothing.

"You blocked?" he asked.

"Yeah. Out of ideas," I said.

"Well, why don't you run what you have so far by me and I'll see what I can do."

I didn't have any new ideas, so I started telling him everything that had happened to me and the situation I was currently in, without using my name of course. All the other guys had stopped typing and were listening as well.

"This could be an underworld drama, in which the hero infiltrates a hostile milieu and joins the enemy in order to learn what he needs to know to take them all down," said Pee-Splattered, Old-Birkenstock Jerry.

"So, he has to become a sex-addicted danger to society and sleep with the old woman?" asked Pocket-Watch Eddy.

"Worse," answered USC-Shirt Jake. "He has to become a real-estate agent. That way he can be around her as much as possible and find out more about the way she operates. Plus, while he's stringing on the director for more money, he can make sure they're really lovers. The director said that was why he wanted her followed, but the real motive could be very different. You may decide you want your character involved in something more complicated. It's something to think about, anyway."

"Hey, thanks. That helps a lot," I said. I'd never imagined that Sharkburt could have other motives. If I found out something weird, I could make even more money by blackmailing him. I also never thought about the fact that Gertie now treated me like a client, and that since she was trying to make money off of me, she'd never really open up and show me her true colors, if she had any. If I became her apprentice, she might start showing me exactly what she was capable of.

I walked over to Gertie's office and saw Ellen inside. I rapped on the window a little and went in.

"Hello," she said. "Has Gertie got in touch with you?"

"Yeah, but I was hoping to get an update. You don't know where she is, do you?"

"Actually, she's not available today. She said she was supervising the seeding of a lawn. Would you like to leave—?"

I was out the door before she could finish her sentence. I got in the Charger and tried to calm down a little before pulling out of the parking lot. I already had images of little grass seeds being scattered around my house, of fertilizer pellets that stunk like vitamins, of a tanned, sweaty laborer shaking little clumps of straw that rained down everywhere. And then I imagined the grass slowly coming in, at first looking like the balding head that triggers a mid-life crisis, then becoming as thick as my hair. The street would finally have that seamless I'm-okay-you're-okay unity that my neighbors had always dreamed of.

16

When I pulled into my driveway, I saw that the scene was mostly how I had imagined, except that the tanned laborer had been replaced by a pasty-white, jiggly Frenchman. He had been sweating so much that the hair on top of his head looked even thinner, and the longer hair in back hung straighter than normal, brushing the top of his shoulders when he bent down to pick up more straw.

Gertie stepped out of the house holding a glass of whiskey on the rocks. When she saw me, she started walking over, her boobs once again moving in circles and smashing into one another with each step. I wondered why they didn't swing in unison like a pendulum, but maybe it was like the water in the toilet that always goes down clockwise. Maybe Australian Gertie's boobs swung in the opposite direction. Even more disturbing than that image was the fact that if she was free-boobing, then that meant my immigrant worker had probably been defiled by the lady of the house during his break.

"I'd have bought sod, but this is much cheaper, and the labor is free," she said. "Well, not free, but let's just say he worked on a different patch of grass as compensation." She took a long drink of whiskey and let out a satisfied "ahh." I was a little too grossed out to go off on her, and anyway I couldn't risk jeopardizing my new plan.

"So what's this going to cost me?"

"Nada. The Gert has a rule: always screw the guy at the very bottom. For my expertise, I'm taking ten percent of the rent for the next six months. But don't worry—I just raised Tommy's rent by that much since he's now living in a luxury apartment."

"Luxury apartment?"

"Yeah. I'm going to have him install a bird feeder with running water in the backyard. We'll call it a pool until the inspectors come. I've done it hundreds of times."

"That's great, but you don't think I can sell the place?" I asked, even though I had no intention of doing so.

"Not now. You'd lose too much because of the market. But I've got another idea you can do while waiting. Your neighbors have been wanting this grass for so long that I think you'll be able to milk them for landscaping costs. After the grass comes in, they're going to be really happy. I'll wait two or three months, and then when someone calls me about the value of their property, I'll tell them it's about to go down because Mr. Herisson can't pay for the upkeep anymore. Then I'll feed them the idea of joining up with the other neighbors to pay for your landscaping. They'll do it just to keep the value of their houses up."

"But I don't want any landscaping."

"It'll never actually happen. We'll split the money and have Tommy plant a tree."

"Wow," I said, smiling and nodding to show my admiration.

Since things seemed to be going well, I decided to spring my plan on her. "Say Gertie, I've been unemployed for a while now, and I want to look into learning some new stuff. I imagine you'll say no to this, but why don't you let me work for free as your assistant so I can see how you do all this? I wouldn't be any competition for you because if I sell my house I'm getting out of L.A."

"Hmm...a free assistant," she said, and I could see from the way she squinted her eyes and smiled evilly that she was imagining ways she could use me as slave labor for as long as possible. After a moment she regained control of her expression. "An assistant would just get in my way. I'd end up having to work harder." I knew she was lying because she was forcing herself to smile like she smiled at those Malibu church goers. She was trying to milk me for more than just labor.

"I suppose I could also sign exclusively with you for the sale of my house. That way you could be sure I wouldn't try to sell it myself after I learned how to do it." I wasn't worried about this because even if she did find a buyer later, I'd refuse.

"You'll do everything I say? I don't want to start you down the path and then have you bailing out on me after I've invested a lot of effort."

"No...I'll take it seriously."

"Okay then. You start Monday. Report to my office and await my instructions."

"Thanks Gertie. You won't regret this," I said, trying to sound like a go-getter.

"I'm sure I won't." She turned to go back inside and at the same time gave me a little pat on the ass. I was hoping this was like one of those little-league pats, but then when I thought about it, those little-league ones seemed pretty pervy as well.

17

My last sexual-harassment-free weekend. Saturday, I took Ballsack on a walk along the path that runs parallel to Ocean Avenue. I always loved to walk under the palm trees, to look out over the ocean, to check out all of the beautiful jogging girls and watch for the occasional celebrity. Santa Monica always did me some good.

As I was leaning against the fence that ran along the cliff, the big poodle started going crazy, spinning in circles. I had to move the leash around to prevent him from choking himself. Then he started pulling me over toward a big palm tree. When we got over there, Ballsack reared up on his back legs and barked a little. Then he crouched down low to the ground with his front paws as if he was getting ready to pounce. His tail wagged away.

I circled the tree to see what he was excited about, expecting to see a squirrel, but there was only some guy there. He was trying to shoo the big poodle away with his left hand while holding his bandaged right hand up against his chest in case the dog jumped. He was very tan and was wearing a tank top with weird, white cotton pants that stopped at his calves. They made me think that he hadn't been able to make up his mind whether to wear shorts or pants, so he had compromised.

"Sorry buddy," I said. "He won't hurt you. He just gets excited sometimes." He stopped trying to make the big poodle go away and leaned over. He gave the dog a scratch behind the ear.

"This is my favorite kind of dog," he said and then made the noises you'd normally make to a baby. "Oh yes, you like the scratches, don't you!"

"That's the place he likes to be scratched the most."

"How long have you had him?" he asked.

"He's not mine. I'm just dog sitting while his owner is out of town, but I'm starting to wish I had one just like him."

"They sure do grow on you. Well, have a nice day," he said, and then gave Ballsack's afro a final tousle. "You take care now, Manolete." The man stood up and walked across Ocean Avenue. I watched him go, thinking what a dumb name Manolete was and how glad I was to have changed his name. Then I realized there was no way that man could have known the old name. I leaned down in front of the big poodle and looked at his collar. It was written right there, but really small, on the front of the round metal tag, with an address that wasn't Dennis' on back. I guess this guy had looked at it. Still, it seemed like a pretty weird name to be able to say perfectly just from reading it. I'd sure never heard it before Dennis had said it.

18

Monday morning I stopped to see the writers on my way to work. I explained to them that I was doing research for my underworld real-estate drama, so I'd be volunteering for a while.

"That's convenient," said Hat-Guy Leonard. "Didn't you say you wanted to make the beast that has two backs with that secretary?" All the guys laughed at me.

"I've got a higher purpose now," I said. "Besides, I'm trying to get back together with my ex. I'll see you guys later." I went in and grabbed a couple of coffees. Then I walked over to Gertie's office. Ellen was already talking on the phone. I walked in and put one of the coffees on her desk. She mouthed a silent "thank you" as she continued listening.

"Yes...Mmm hmm...Okay...I'll get him started," she said into the receiver and then hung up. "Good morning Lonnie!"

"Good morning."

"That was Gertie on the phone. She told me she wanted you to spend the first week getting familiar with the basics." She stood up and took two huge binders off of a shelf behind her. She handed them to me with an apologetic look. I looked at the covers. One was called "Real Estate Principles" and the other "Real Estate Practices." They weighed about ten pounds apiece. I took them over to the sitting area and used the coffee table as my desk.

I read over the folders for about an hour before I awoke suddenly with Ellen standing over me.

"Wake up, Mr. Sleepy!" she said.

"Whew...I need another coffee. You want one?" She shook her head no. I went and grabbed the biggest, strongest coffee possible and then returned to the binders.

It blew my mind that I was actually qualified to be an agent. I had assumed I wasn't, because whenever I saw pictures of the agents on their signs, they were always dressed up in nice clothes. I had always imagined that they were highly educated, but these books said you only had to be eighteen. It even said that you could still become an agent if you had a criminal record, which I guessed was why a large part of the binder was devoted to ethics.

I was amazed at how much time they spent talking about how dishonest it was to give fake estimates of property value. It was apparently the most serious offense you could commit in the business. If they had to talk about it so much, I assumed that meant it was a real problem. The entire chapter on ethics' sole purpose was begging people not to do what everybody in L.A. did all the time: lie about money. They listed all sorts of penalties you could have if you did any of that stuff, but the worst seemed to be that you could lose your real-estate license. Gee, since that took a whole three months to get after your eighteenth birthday or release from prison, I was sure people really shook in their boots at that threat.

I kept hoping Gertie would call and make me go do some demeaning labor, but the phone never rang. I was forced to continue reading. My training continued like that all week. I arrived at 9am, read through the binders fighting not to fall asleep or being awakened by Ellen when I did, and then went home at 5, my brain so numbed that I could barely remember that I was only pretending to want to learn this stuff.

19

Friday night when I arrived home, my shit phone rang. I saw that it was Gertie, so I picked up and got ready to chew her out for screwing me over.

"Mr. Herisson," she said, her voice loud and pompous. "I have spoken to Ellen. She has informed me that you are ready."

"If you mean ready to claw my own eyes out from reading—"

"Shh! Do not speak!" she said, and it occurred to me that Gertie was doing what every character in a movie or TV show does when they want to sound mysterious or other worldly: they stop making contractions. What, am I supposed to believe that a vampire or elf or something doesn't have the ability to say "I'm" or "you're"? "I am going to suck your blood, after which you are going to be my slave!" Why do they do this? Maybe since they live forever, they aren't worried about saving time by speaking faster.

"You will go to the Getty Museum Rose Garden, where you will wait for me at the edge of the pool."

"Yes. I will go there," I said.

"Excellent. Goodbye—oh wait a minute. You're free tomorrow at 10, right?" she asked, followed by a deep smoker's hack.

"Yeah, no problem."

"Wonderful. I will see you on the morrow," she said, and hung up.

20

On the morrow, I took the Mercedes north up the 405 to the Getty Museum exit. I was directed to an underground parking lot, where I crept down much more slowly than was necessary because of the jackasses who stopped their cars hoping for someone to come along and free up a spot. Why didn't they just drive down to the lowest level, where there were spaces? It's not like extra time in the elevator was going to kill them.

I parked the car and rode up the elevator. Within a few minutes, I was in the tram shooting up the east-facing side of the mountain. The highway below me was jammed full of cars heading into L.A., their brake lights flashing every couple of feet. In the hills on the other side of the highway, all sorts of swanky houses had been built on stilts on even the most unstable-looking slopes. There was no way I'd have lived in one of those mudslide magnets.

As the tram finished up its trip, the Getty museum came into view. I had always seen it from a distance, but I hadn't realized how enormous it was. The museum was actually a collection of huge buildings, situated on top of a mountain overlooking all of L.A. and the ocean. It was made out of white stones and marble, and there were fountains and statues everywhere. As I walked through the front doors, I had the impression that I had died and that this was the serene afterlife. And then when I asked the guy at the desk how much the entry fee was, he told me it was free. I couldn't help getting a big goofy smile on my face.

I made my way south through the complex, occasionally ducking my head into a building to see what kind of stuff they had. One room had some modern art that I liked. There was a huge painting of an octopus, but instead of suckers, there were cut-out photos of lips or anuses, I'm not sure which. I came up with two very different interpretations of the work just in case someone asked. The kissopus was like your wrinkly grandma coming at you after a holiday visit as you try to escape into the back seat of your parents' car. The crapopus was pretty much just an animal that wanted to shit all over you. Hey, I'm not the one who makes this stuff up.

I continued to the rose garden. The south side of the museum had the most amazing view of L.A. and the ocean. Tons of people were standing around enjoying the view or sitting in the grass taking in the sun. The rose garden was designed in the shape of a huge bowl, bigger than my house, with a pool at the center, fed by a little stream that ended in a waterfall. There were two tree-lined paths winding down on either side of it, passing by every kind of plant you can imagine. I went clockwise down, swatting away an occasional bee as I walked through vine-covered arches.

When I arrived at the pool, I looked around for Gertie, but she wasn't there. People were moving slowly up and down the paths, throwing coins into the pool and taking pictures, so I was constantly moving out of someone's way. Then I got a tap on the shoulder. I spun around and there she was, wearing an over-sized UCLA sweatshirt whose hood covered her eyes.

"You have come as requested," she said. "You must now follow me." She led me out of the bowl along the circular path, occasionally bumping into a tourist and growling under her breath.

She led me off to the cactus garden on the south promontory without saying a word or looking back to make sure I was following her. When we arrived as far south as we could go, she whirled around, pushed her hood off, and stood staring into my eyes, all of Los Angeles behind her.

"Before I will allow you to accompany me into the jungle that lies before you, you must tell me what you have learned," she said majestically.

I thought this over for a minute. I had actually learned a lot of stuff, so I started telling her about ethics, contracts, the history of L.A. real estate, current trends in selling, and how agents survived in times of recession. After fifteen minutes of this she began shaking her head vigorously.

"No no no! You are not ready! You have learned nothing!"

"What do you mean? I know those binders backwards and forwards!"

"Yes, but you must pull from them the most basic truth of real estate. Let your mind go. Free yourself from the technical information that confuses buyers and sellers, and tell me the one thing you know to be true!"

I closed my eyes and felt the cool ocean breeze. I imagined all the houses below, all the potential buyers and sellers, all of the signs posted on the lawns, all of the open houses, the business attire, the friendly smiles and reassuring slogans. But nothing came to me. I opened my eyes and shrugged. Gertie nodded slowly.

"You are not ready. I cannot train you," she said, and began to walk away.

My stress level shot through the roof. What could these people, who were sometimes completely uneducated or even had criminal records, know that I didn't? And then it hit me.

"Any uneducated jackass can do this job, so there's no reason real-estate agents should make even half the money they do!" I yelled. She quickly turned around and stepped back to me.

"Shh! No one must hear! That is very good. You have passed the test!"

I felt tired and exhilarated all at once. Gertie let the whole vampire speak drop.

"It's very important to keep that in mind, kid. For the percent of the sale that we get, these people need to think our job is complicated. I set you on those binders so that you'll be armed, but be careful: many a promising agent starts buying his own load of crap and forgets the true spirit of the profession. Once you cross over, there's no saving you. You memorize the lines, but never fall victim to them. They're only there to make people think we're worth for one sale what would be an entire year's salary to someone else, when all we really do is take clients on a walk through a house and fill in the blanks on a contract that any monkey could download and get notarized."

"So that's it? That's all there is?" I asked.

"No. That's only the beginning. Since none of us is worth a dime, the competition is vicious. Ever see a disaster-relief team throw a loaf of bread into a crowd of people who haven't eaten for a week? They tear each other apart for that bread. We're much worse, so to attract as many clients as possible, everything you do has to let people see that you are the best. You know my touch-screen organizer that I use to check my appointments?"

"Yeah. I saw you with it. You looked at it to find time to come out to my place."

"No I didn't. I was looking at porn, but you were impressed and that's all that matters. In this economy, you have maybe one or two appointments a week. As if I'd forget them. But I need to give people the impression that I'm completely booked, because I'm numero uno."

"So what—"

"Enough for today. I'll show you more next week. Until then, reward yourself with something expensive that clients will see you with. Do you have a Montblanc pen? They're expensive, but the more you spend on yourself, the more you'll look like the best and the more properties you'll sell."

"I can't thank you enough Gertie."

"Don't thank me yet. The hardest is still to come," she said as she backed away. I waved and she turned around and left. I stayed there for a while trying to imagine myself as a big shot down there, making deals and scooping up armloads of money.

As I rode the tram back down the mountain, I thought of a way I could save the Helen situation. Now that I was working for Gertie, I had a real reason to be following her around, and I could even introduce Helen to Gertie if she didn't believe me. Even the hair removal fit with the story—I couldn't meet clients looking like a hedgehog after all.

I whipped out the shit phone and called Helen. No one picked up, and when I tried to leave a message all I could hear was the crackling of bad reception. Anyway, she'd probably delete anything I left without listening to it. I thought about going over there directly, but that had the potential of ending in a restraining order—not that it would hurt my new career. But then I thought if she got an email from me, she'd at least have to look at the subject line before trashing it. That would give me about five words to work with.

21

I got in my car and drove up the four levels to the exit. Along with traffic-jammed highways, big underground parking lots are the main places I start to get panicky. All those cars coming in and out, and no air flowing through there. I usually try to hold my breath for a while, but when I start getting blue in the face, I end up gulping in a huge gasp of pollution. That's the weird part about L.A.—you always feel stuck somewhere in pollution. You got this beautiful city surrounded by desert on one side, the ocean on the other, and covered with a lid of smog. And then you get stuck on the highways, in the parking lots, in the stores. But then, once or twice a year, we'll have a big rain, and it washes the sky and the city clean, and we all stand around looking at mountains and landscapes that are normally covered up by the smog, and it's as if the whole place has just had some perfect plastic surgery, and we know we'll never move away.

The highway looked jammed packed, so I felt like staying off it. I turned south on Sepulveda, drove down to Wilshire, and then headed east. I passed through Beverly Hills and by all the swanky streets, shops and car dealerships; and even though I think it's overrated, I took a long look at the Beverly Wilshire hotel. I only liked looking at this place because of that romantic movie about the whore. Here was this expensive hotel with the dirtiest kind of doing going on. But to look at it was weird, because the ground-level part was really fancy with all sorts of architecture crap, but then the upper levels looked like a dirty brick building from St. Louis. You go to the lobby and you're thinking, wow, here I am in Beverly Hills, yea! Then you get to your room and it's all East St. Louis and whores.

22

I headed toward the Beverly Center because I was on a mission from Gertie to buy a stupid pen. I got to La Cienega and turned north. The enormous gazillion-floor shopping center came into view, and I pulled into the parking lot—this time an above-ground one. I parked on the first level and then walked over to a series of escalators that ran up the side of the building. There was a glass wall along the escalators facing outside, so as I rose higher and higher I could look out over the neighborhood, and toward the top there was an unbelievable view of the Hollywood Hills.

After the fourth or fifth escalator—I lost count—I reached the top and turned left into the mall. It was like a normal mall, except all the stores, decorations, people, food, and pets had been replaced with perfect versions of those things. If the world ever got nuked and we needed to preserve a sort of Noah's Ark of excess, the Beverly Center would be a good candidate.

I walked over to a map of the place and found the store on level seven. The floors were laid out in a semi-circle and flanked by enormous department stores. I wandered through the mall, surrounded by these rich people, these black holes of wealth, my eyes drawn to their cleavage, their watches, their handbags. It reminded me of something on my frog CD: when certain toads get angry or afraid, they make this nasty bark and pop up on their back feet, flashing a brightly colored stomach to make their enemies afraid. Here I was, surrounded by all these rich-people flash signs, and if I hadn't been wearing Dennis' clothes and been all groomed up, all that would have been directed at me, telling me I was in the wrong territory.

I got to the Montblanc store. Two tough-looking guys in suits were standing right inside the doorway. One of them opened the door for me. I would've been impressed before, but now I was thinking maybe these guys were here just to make sure I wouldn't question the quality of the goods inside. I mean, who's going to hire security like that to sell Bics, right? You see all these suits and muscles, and you just assume this store is the best, so you don't mind shelling out the cash. I was starting to think that everything in L.A. worked like Gertie.

"Can I help you sir?" asked a bald man wearing a black suit. I couldn't see any hairs coming out of his nose or ears either, and his skin didn't have a trace of oiliness. I even wondered if he was wearing make-up.

"Yeah, you guys sell pens?"

"Of course. Allow me to show you our writing instruments."

"Nah...I already got a computer. I just need a pen."

"Ah, yes. Right this way then," he said and led me over to a display case. There was a sign in it that said "writing instruments," so at first I felt kind of stupid, but come on, if everyone talked like that, now that would be stupid. If every time I picked up my shit phone I said "excuse me, I have to actionate my communication-disrupting apparatus," how ridiculous would I sound? But then I realized that even this held to Gertie's principals: hide the reality with a pretty layer of deception. So I set out to buy me a writing instrument.

The bald man took out three velvet-lined boxes and set them on the counter.

"This is our classic line, and here it is in platinum. This third pen is our newest and features a floating emblem at the tip and a jewel-studded clip."

For some reason, this also felt like a test. I had the definite feeling that it was possible to make a bad choice here. I thought over how I'd be using this writing instrument. It wasn't the kind of thing I'd be leaving in my pocket, because I knew that purposefully showing people you had money actually meant you didn't have it. Likewise, if I took the jeweled jobby, people would think I wanted it to catch their eye when I took it out, and I'd surely be discovered as a fraud. Now, the classic was nice. When I picked it up, it felt good, and the gold and black colors looked great in my hand. But that would be like telling people "I knew I had to get one of these to impress you, so I scraped up enough dough for the minimum."

"I'll take the classic in platinum," I said without even picking it up. The bald man smiled and nodded.

"A very reasonable choice, sir. Between you and me, this one here," he said, pointing discretely to the jeweled pen, "appeals more to our nouveau rich customers."

"Who?"

"Well, for example, rappers tend to buy this one. They seem to enjoy sparkly things."

As he wrapped up my little box, I braced myself for the bill. None of these things had price tags on them, which is a sure sign that people like me are in for big trouble. I decided not to wait for the bad news because from now on I was going to be in control. I took out about a fourth of Tommy's rent money and handed it over before the bald guy could even tell me how much it cost. He seemed relieved not to have to say any numbers out loud. He handed me back a couple of twenties, and I strolled out of the place past the respectfully nodding guards.

23

When I got back to Santa Monica, I stopped off at the Barnes & Noble, grabbed a coffee and searched the aisles for the writing section. With all the studying I had done at Gertie's office, lots of movie stuff had flushed right out of my head. I picked up a copy of Syd's screenwriting book and made sure it hadn't been stained by some moocher. I wanted to buy this one so I could look at it whenever I forgot something.

When I got up to the register to pay, I whipped out my credit card. The cashier, a lovely chick of the "I-wouldn't-normally-talk-to-you" type, rang me up and handed me the receipt to sign. I normally didn't use my card, and I even had enough cash on me to pay for the book, but I wanted to put the writing-instrument aura into effect. I took it out of my pocket, removed the cap, and signed. I had to admit that it wrote smoothly. I looked up, caught her looking away from my hand, and slid the receipt back over to her. For a brief instant, I saw on her face a look that seemed to sum up all her financial difficulties and annoyances at having to work in a book store. This was a lot different than the normal, "don't-even-think-about-doing-me" look that I would have gotten had I paid in cash. I thanked her and bopped out of the store, feeling like I had a secret weapon in my pocket.

24

Back at Dennis', I looked up Helen's email address by searching her school's website. I brought up my email account, hit the "new mail" button and typed out the whole story, telling her at the end how much I missed her. Then I put the cursor in the subject box. I thought for a long time about what would get her to want to read the email. Finally, I typed "Misunderstanding. I'm really hurting." I knew that Helen couldn't stand the idea of someone suffering, and if she thought there was the slightest chance that she was the cause, she'd look into it.

For the rest of the weekend I thought about how I was going to write up Gertie's activities so that they'd make it to Spieldburt's eyes without arousing the suspicions of his goons. A lot of it I was planning to put down verbatim, thanks to recordings I'd make with Dennis' spy equipment. But I needed to spice everything up so that Grant would think it was worth showing to his boss. I thought long and hard about the type of stories Spieldburt normally turns into movies until the perfect idea came to me.

25

That week I started work as Gertie's right-hand man. It would have been stressful enough already, but since I was constantly worried about putting my spy-pen recorder where it would pick up her conversations when I wasn't with her, and then retrieving it without her seeing me, I almost lost my mind from the stress. When she let me off early on Friday, I went to rejoin my writing buddies. With my copy of Syd's screenwriting book hidden in my jacket pocket, I got to work on my disguised report for Spieldburt. Here's what I came up with:

SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER

Act 1

By Lonnie Herisson

EXT. SWANKY BEVERLY HILLS HOUSE ON COMSTOCK AVENUE - NOON

A 1978 Yellow Eldorado Biarritz pulls into the driveway. The car doors swing open and out step GERTIE ELLIOT, a 60-something real-estate agent dressed conservatively in a gray skirt and white blouse, and LONNIE HERISSON, a short, round man with very thick dark hair and a nicely groomed unit. Any reasonable woman would want to do him.

They step to the front of the car. GERTIE adjusts LONNIE's tie.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Now remember: You're my husband and we met at church. You're an accountant.

LONNIE HERISSON

Why an accountant?

GERTIE ELLIOT

Because no one ever asks accountants questions about their jobs. It's the perfect cover. Now look, I've put a lot of effort into this couple, so just follow my lead. I'll be selling this house in no time.

LONNIE HERISSON (VOICE OVER)

And once I have the evidence that you're cheating on your lover, I'll stop pretending to be your real-estate assistant and return to being Dennis Bates, Private Investigator. Ha ha ha!

They walk up to the door of the swanky house and ring the bell. BRANDI POWELL, a 25-year-old blond whose presence causes most men to enter into a pre-orgasmic state, answers the door. She is wearing tiny shorts and a black midriff top. Upon close inspection, one could see, if one were curious to know such things and one knelt down very quickly in front of her pretending to have dropped something, that there was no lint of any color in her belly button.

BRANDI POWELL

(Smiling, with a tone as artificial as her sweet, gravity-defying chest)

Gertie! So nice to see you again! Glad you could make it for lunch. And finally, we get to meet the love of your life!

That was LONNIE's cue to direct his gaze north to her eyes. Now having the complete picture of her, LONNIE realized she was not a classic beauty, but rather a collection of pieced-together sexual stereotypes copied from whichever starlets happened to be making the latest waves in Hollywood. He still wanted to do her very badly.

LONNIE HERISSON

Thanks for inviting us over. I can't believe you want to sell this place. It's amazing.

GERTIE shoots daggers from her eyes toward LONNIE.

BRANDI POWELL

Oh no! I've spent months having people decorate this house. We're not going anywhere. Why don't you come in? Jefferson is waiting for us in the living room.

They follow BRANDI into the house. JEFFERSON POWELL, a sixty-something, white-haired grandpa who gravity has not spared, sits with his legs crossed, a drink in hand, and a smile on his face that only a man banging BRANDI could have. He rises to his feet to greet his guests.

JEFFERSON POWELL

Gertie! Looking as lovely as ever.

GERTIE ELLIOT

You old charmer, you!

GERTIE and JEFFERSON hug for what seems to be an instant too long.

GERTIE ELLIOT (cont'd)

(Pointing with her thumb toward LONNIE)

I brought the bigger half with me.

The gentlemen shake hands firmly and exchange pleasantries. JEFFERSON maintains constant eye contact during the conversation, preventing LONNIE from sneaking peeks at BRANDI, but after almost a minute of this visual game of chicken, LONNIE cracks and whips his eyeballs toward the cleavage and back. JEFFERSON smiles coyly to acknowledge his victory.

INT. THE POWELL'S DINING ROOM - LATER

Lunch is almost over. The kitchen staff take away the emptied plates and serve the coffee. LONNIE is unhappy with the small size of the cups and downs one after another, causing the server to return frequently for refills. BRANDI is telling the story of how she and JEFFERSON first met.

BRANDI POWELL

I was about to give up on my modeling career and go to massage school when my agent called. El Pollo Loco needed a girl to advertise for its Santa Monica location. They wanted me to walk around on the beach in a bikini wearing a costume chicken head, wings and feet.

JEFFERSON POWELL

It was love at first sight. I was there at the beach—

BRANDI POWELL

(Interrupting)

With that horrible woman!

JEFFERSON POWELL

(Giving a conciliatory nod)

My fifth wife.

BRANDI POWELL

(Indignantly)

Who later accused my Jefferson of being a cradle-robbing pervert! It was so ridiculous. I mean, with my chicken head on he couldn't even see how old I was. For all he knew, I could have been older than that 30-year-old hag by his side!

LONNIE has missed most of that exchange, as he is battling away the frightening yet seductive prospect of doing a humanoid, bikinied chicken. He realizes his brow is covered with sweat and wipes it dry.

BRANDI POWELL (cont'd)

He managed to slip a business card into the back of my bikini bottom while his wife was taking a picture of us together. And then he whispered something so cute!

(Nudging JEFFERSON)

Go on, tell them!

JEFFERSON POWELL

(Feigning embarrassment)

No...I couldn't. Well, okay. I said "cluck you later."

GERTIE ELLIOT

Aw! That's so sweet. What a beautiful story.

LONNIE feels the effects of the eight cups of coffee he has just drunk.

LONNIE HERISSON

(Standing up)

Could you point me to the restroom?

INT. THE POWELL'S GUEST BATHROOM - MOMENTS LATER

LONNIE splashes water on his face in the sink and then pats himself off with a hand towel. He steps over to the toilet and begins to drain the lizard. He lifts his head toward the ceiling and lets out a sigh of relief. Then, as he gives a quick check to make sure the aim is still good, he sees a rapid, darting shadow in the toilet bowl. Afraid, he stops his stream and jumps back from the bowl. He begins to lean forward to look inside when there is a soft knock at the door. He puts away his smooth unit and opens the door.

BRANDI steps in quickly and shuts the door behind her. She looks worried.

BRANDI POWELL

(Whispering)

I have to talk to you, but you have to promise not to say anything. Sometimes I think I'm just imagining things, and I don't want to hurt anyone if it's not true.

LONNIE HERISSON

Okay, I won't say anything.

BRANDI POWELL

I think our spouses are having an affair. It's just eating me up inside. These have been the happiest five months of my life, and I can't stand the idea of all that commitment being for nothing. Have you noticed anything strange?

LONNIE HERISSON

No, I haven't, but I've been working a lot lately.

BRANDI POWELL

We've got to start working together to keep tabs on them. If you notice anything, call me. I'll do the same.

LONNIE HERISSON

Of course.

(Trying to look as weepy as possible)

How did this happen?

LONNIE opens his arms wide. BRANDI enters them and hugs him. LONNIE rests his head on her love pillows and his hand on her fantastically firm posterior. After this touching moment, BRANDI, with a sympathetic look, exits. LONNIE walks with difficulty over to the sink and begins delicately unzipping his pants. Another knock is heard. A smile comes over LONNIE's face. He rushes over to the door and opens it. His expression changes to one of disappointment when he sees that it is GERTIE. She pushes her way in.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Out of the way. I gotta drain the clam.

LONNIE remembers something important.

LONNIE HERISSON

(Pointing emphatically to the toilet)

But I think I saw a—

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Interrupting)

Tell me later.

GERTIE pushes a protesting LONNIE out of the bathroom and then shuts and locks the door. She lets out a sigh. Then she stands in front of the sink fixing her hair in the mirror.

The camera pans over to the toilet. One miniature, slimy green hand rises up from the bowl and grabs the seat, and then another hand does the same. They are so small that we can barely see them. The camera zooms in very close. Then the SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER lifts itself up to look out. Its antennaed head looks not unlike that scary, middle part of a butterfly. It is not much smaller than a dime. Upon seeing Gertie, it unrolls its crazy snout with joy and then lowers itself below the seat and withdraws its hands to wait.

GERTIE walks over to the toilet, hikes up her skirt and sits down. After a moment, she jumps a little, as if having received a small electrical shock.

INT./EXT. THE '78 ELDORADO BIARRITZ - LATER

GERTIE and LONNIE pull out of the driveway, waving goodbye to BRANDI and JEFFERSON, who are standing at the door.

LONNIE HERISSON

That went pretty well.

GERTIE ELLIOT

What did Brandi say to you in the bathroom?

LONNIE HERISSON

She thinks you and Jefferson are getting with the doing. How ridiculous is that?

GERTIE remains silent and smiles as she drives. She drags deeply on her lipstick-stained cigarette.

LONNIE HERISSON (cont'd)

But there's something I don't understand. How is any of this related to real estate? We never even mentioned selling the house, and Brandi said she would never sell the place. I just don't see the point.

GERTIE turns her head to look at LONNIE. Her eyes are suddenly reptilian, the pupils stretched out like those of a goat.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Oh, you will see it. You will...

EXT. CREEPY, DARK STREET - NIGHT

It is raining hard. LONNIE, wearing a trench coat and a hat, hears a mysterious foreign voice call out to him.

MYSTERIOUS FOREIGN VOICE (off screen)

Follow the sound of my voice! Let it guide you to your destination...

LONNIE HERISSON

(Looks around confusedly)

Who the hell are you? Where are you? What do you mean, my destination? I was on my way to get some burgers.

MYSTERIOUS FOREIGN VOICE (off screen)

Follow your heart. Let it guide you...

LONNIE HERISSON

I don't have time for this crap.

LONNIE continues on his way.

MYSTERIOUS FOREIGN VOICE (off screen)

(Sounding much less mysterious)

Go to the corner of 18th and Santa Monica

(The mysterious tone comes back)

Next to the Honda dealership...

LONNIE walks quickly over to a spooky-looking building. He walks around the side, goes down some concrete stairs, and knocks on a door.

MYSTERIOUS FOREIGN VOICE (off screen)

Come in, Mr. Herisson.

LONNIE opens the door and steps in out of the rain.

LONNIE HERISSON

Why have you lead me here? And hey, how do you know my name?

The candle-lit room is filled with elaborate contraptions of dubious utility. Along one wall are a series of terrariums, in which many frogs and toads jump happily around. A definitely weird kind of foreigner, dressed in a gold, red and green silk robe, is bent over a work bench studying an object. His long beard and mustache almost reach the ground.

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

(Without looking up)

Long have our destinies been intertwined. I perceive things, get flashes or hear sounds. I know, for example, that you used to carry in you the Supplementary Terrian Dweller. You are here now because it has reappeared in your life. But what I don't know is why I was inspired to install these terrariums.

LONNIE HERISSON

I listen to a frog-barking CD every night to get to sleep!

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

Ah yes...I heard it. I suppose I could have saved some money and bought the CD instead of ordering all these specimens. Damn. I don't suppose you can return this sort of thing.

LONNIE HERISSON

But why are we psychically connected like this?

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

You are the one who first brought the Supplementary Terrian Dweller into my life. Its desire was to stay inside of you, but one fated afternoon, you evacuated it into the men's room toilet of my vegan restaurant.

LONNIE HERISSON

The tofu chili!

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

Yes. And I entered that foul room right after, becoming the next host for the Dweller. When it entered my body, it merged a small section of your consciousness with mine. You see, the Dweller was not happy at having been evacuated in that way, and it was trying to lead me to you so that it could transfer back.

LONNIE HERISSON

How did you resist?

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

With much difficulty, and it made me pay for my resistance. I lost my restaurant due to my obsession with killing the foul alien, and my wife left me. She simply refused to believe that one could catch a Supplementary Terrian Dweller from a toilet seat.

LONNIE HERISSON

But now you're free. How did you do it?

The DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER holds up the object he has been looking at. It is a strange-looking gun with a small jar mounted on the top. A tube runs from the jar to the barrel.

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

After years of effort, I created this extraction gun. But the original version had no jar, so when I removed the Dweller, I had to try to catch it with my hands. It was more slippery than I had imagined, and it escaped down the sink. But if you now know where it is, take this gun. Extract the Dweller and save us all!

LONNIE HERISSON

I will. What do I do with it once it's in the jar?

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

How would I know? Stick it in the microwave or something.

LONNIE takes the gun and looks at it.

LONNIE HERISSON

So, you have to shove this up—

DEFINITELY WEIRD KIND OF FOREIGNER

(Interrupting)

No, it must be placed in the belly button. If the Dweller is really in there, he will be instantly sucked out and into the jar. Now go! Leave me to my repose.

LONNIE exits.

26

As soon as I had finished writing the last sentence I whipped out Grant's business card and rang him up. He answered with the uninterested tone of someone who knows you have no choice but to go through him to get what you want.

"Yeah," he said.

"Grant, this is Lonnie. I got the first act ready like you said. It's a real gem, with tons of intrigue. Can I come by and show it to you?"

"Why don't you just send it to me via email and I'll look it over."

"Because if I wanted to do that I'd have to type it up," I said.

"I'm not reading it if it's handwritten! What is this, kindergarten?"

"All right. I'll send it to you by the end of the day. But make sure to tell your boss that I'm using a pen name—tell him he'll know who I really am."

I gathered up my things and drove over to Dennis' place. I sat down in front of the computer, opened up my email account, hit the new-message button and started typing. I had never been much of a typing guy, so it was taking me a long time to copy all the sentences. Every time I thought I had a good part of it done, I'd look up and see tons of squiggly red lines underneath the words. When I clicked on the problem words, a huge list of other words popped up, and maybe it was because I was tired or something, but they all started looking the same, so I just randomly replaced them until all the red lines were gone. Then I reread the few paragraphs I'd managed to get down, and they didn't make much sense anymore. I figured this email thing would take a lot longer than if I just stuck the screenplay in the mail, so I decided to do that, even if prissy Grant wouldn't like reading my handwriting. Once I hit the cancel-message button, my email account went back to the inbox, where I saw that I had no new messages. Helen had either not yet read my email, or had decided I was full of it and hadn't answered.

27

At about midnight I was getting ready to head over to my place when the phone rang. I picked it up as fast as I could to avoid waking up my dad.

"Hello," I whispered.

"Hi Lonnie, it's Dennis." He sounded either dejected or tired. "Hope it's not too late for you."

"No, I was just heading back to my place. Do you need something?"

"I thought I'd call and see if you'd gotten your check yet."

"One second. Let me look." I had completely forgotten that I was waiting to receive another big check for doing absolutely nothing. I stepped out to the courtyard and opened up the mailbox. I found the envelope marked "attn: Lonnie Herisson" and opened it up. The amount seemed to leap off the check, so much so that I had to calm down before speaking again.

"Yeah, here it is. Everything's good," I said.

"Okay. Well...how's the dog? Does he miss me?"

This seemed like a strange question to me. People were always projecting like that onto their animals. Dennis was clearly feeling a little homesick, but he refused to just say "I miss the dog." Instead, he wanted me to play along like this. I thought about saying "No, what the dog really wants is for me to continue wearing your clothes and driving your cars around. He also wants my dad to keep hanging out on your couch," but in the end I liked Dennis, so I played along.

"You know, I think he does. He keeps looking up the stairs toward your room, like he's waiting for someone to come down."

"Oh! The poor thing! You can give him some extra doggy treats."

"Sure thing. But overall, you've got nothing to worry about. He's having a good time," I said and reached down to pat him on the head. My hand sank a little deeper than I expected into his fur. I started worrying that my dad had forgotten to feed him while I was gone and that underneath that afro, he was all skin and bones. I glanced over at his dog bowl, but it was full.

"Hey Dennis, you sound a little blue, if you don't mind me saying. Are you doing all right?"

"Well, Ignacio has had to push back his arrival here a week. He says he has some business in L.A. to take care of before he can get free. I don't know—it just doesn't sound right. I'm probably being paranoid. Otherwise, I have no reason to complain at all. It's a little slice of paradise here. I suppose I'm just jealous by nature."

"Aren't we all? I wouldn't worry about it. He'll be there in no time."

"Thanks Lonnie. I appreciate it. Call me if you need anything."

We said goodbye and hung up. This was definitely not what I needed right now. Everything was going well, but if Dennis found out that Ignacio had been running around on him, he'd get on the first plane back to L.A., and I'd lose my nice fat checks. And if Dennis had the suspicion that he was being cheated on, then that was probably the case.

I decided that it would be a good idea to do a little snooping around to see what was really going on. The problem was that all I knew about this guy was his first name. Dennis didn't even have any pictures of him sitting out anywhere. I thought about directly asking Dennis if he wanted me to go check up on him but then decided against it. I didn't want Dennis using my name if he did have to accuse Ignacio of something. Who knows what kind of psycho this guy was or what he'd do to me. I couldn't come up with a sneaky way to look into it, so I stopped thinking about it and went back to my place.

28

During the night, the big poodle was scratching more than usual. He woke me up several times because his back paw kept slamming down against the mattress. It sounded like someone was beating a drum. After a while I turned on the light and looked through his afro. Sure enough, he had fleas swarming all over, the poor guy. I tried to help him out by scratching a little around the collar, which made his metal tag jingle.

I was dead tired, but I could see I wouldn't be able to sleep until I had gotten rid of the fleas. I drove to an all-night grocery store and picked up some flea shampoo. When I got back, Ballsack was still scratching away. I took off his collar, led him into my shower, got him wet, and then lathered him up. Then I figured I might as well lather myself up just in case. I rinsed and repeated, and then looked through his afro while he was wet. A lot of the dead fleas had fallen off, but some had gotten tangled up in all the hair. I hosed him off a little longer and then dried him.

Then I changed the sheets and put the old ones in the washing machine. When the big poodle jumped up on the bed, he lay down like he was ready to go to sleep immediately. I had forgotten to put his collar back on, so I went and grabbed it from the bathroom. I put it on backwards at first, because the address side of the tag was facing forward. I reversed it and then hit the lights.

After I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed that I was walking the big poodle along Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. All the girls were smiling as I passed by. I tried to play it cool and act like I wasn't interested in any of them. Then I started noticing strange men peeking out at me from behind the palm trees. I ran over each time I thought I saw someone, but when I arrived, no one was there. And then I no longer felt any pulling on the leash. I looked down to see that it had come unattached and that the big poodle had disappeared. I began to panic, because even if someone found him, the address on the tag was wrong. How was I going to get the dog back? I started running down the street, dodging cars and calling his name.

I awoke with my heart racing and reached over to reassure myself that Ballsack was still there. I decided I was going to get his tag updated first thing the next day. But even after I had made that decision, something was eating at me. And then I realized what it was. If Ignacio had given the big poodle to Dennis, then the address on the tag must have been one of Ignacio's. If that was the case, then I had potentially found a way to check up on Ignacio and make sure he wasn't two-timing.

I went back to sleep and didn't wake up until almost noon. I didn't have to shower since I had already done it in the middle of the night, but to cover up the smell of the flea dip, I added a few extra squirts of cologne.

After stopping by the post office to mail off the screenplay, I took Ballsack to the pet store and had the new tag made up with the correct address. I put the old tag in my pocket. I also picked up a few new chewy things and some more dog shampoo.

I decided I should take the big poodle back to Dennis' before checking out the address. If Ignacio was there, he would recognize the dog and realize I was spying on him. I dropped him off, said hello to my dad, and then sped off again.

29

The address was in West Hollywood, off North Laurel Avenue. I overshot Laurel by several miles to the east, so I had to double back on Hollywood Boulevard past all the tourist traps and freaks. Everyone talks about going to Hollywood, but when they visit all they see are shoe- and handprints in front of a movie theater and stars set in the sidewalk. Well, that and a lot of cheap crap to buy. And since they find the visit so anti-climactic, they usually hit the souvenir stores or buy tickets to a guided tour within the hour, not because they want those things, but just because they can't get over the fact that they came all that way for practically nothing.

I turned left on Laurel, a street that was nice by apartment standards, but not at all where I expected a rich guy like Ignacio to live. It had the standard rows of tall, skinny palm trees, which, I had been told, were like the poor cousins of the shorter, fat palm trees that had to be shaved periodically to keep the rat nests out. Whether you're a person or a palm tree, being rich attracts the scum. This street was also like most of the other apartment streets in L.A. in that there were bunches of smaller trees planted right in front of the buildings. This was either to cover up the boring, boxy architecture and faded, cracked stucco or to give people the impression that they had privacy.

The building I was looking for was a sun-bleached, tan stucco affair that had been divided into condos. It had that 1960's design, which for me mainly meant the windows weren't big enough for convenient spying. After a few passes around the block, I parked close enough to see the front door and waited, flipping through the radio stations whenever a bad song or an advertisement came on.

After about an hour, I couldn't take the waiting anymore. It had been a while since my last stakeout, and I had since gotten used to a more active surveillance. Plus, now that I was working with Gertie, I really needed to relax on my time off. I decided to get it over with and just knock on the door. Ignacio had never seen my face, so even if he was there, I wasn't risking anything.

I walked over to the condo and rang the bell. I couldn't hear anyone moving inside so I started to look in the windows. Then the door opened slowly, and a little girl's face peeked out.

"Hi," I said.

"Hello. Who are you?" she asked. She had that expression kids of around four have when they aren't able to find a place for you in their universe.

"Oh me? I'm nobody, but I found a dog, and the tag has this address."

"Where's the dog?" she asked.

"He's at my place. If you want him, you have to tell me what he looks like."

"Is he white?"

"No. What I meant was, if you lost a dog, tell me what the dog you lost looks like, and if it's the same dog, I'll bring him over."

"My dog is white, but he's not here. He's at my other house," she said. I heard someone else moving in the apartment. A teenage girl appeared in the doorway.

"Go put your toys away, Amanda," said the teenage girl. Amanda disappeared inside, and a clattering of plastic followed. "Can I help you with something?" she asked, smacking away at her gum. Her expression was evidence of an intense disinterest in my presence. Although annoyed, I envied her for not yet being at the stage when you have to fake caring about the person in front of you.

"I found a dog, and the tag says this address. Did you lose one?"

"I'm just babysitting, but I've never seen a dog here. Amanda?" she asked, turning into the room. "Do you have a dog?"

"Yes. A white dog," said Amanda, who, from the sounds of it, was now dumping out the contents of her toy box.

I had the same feeling I get when I call a customer-service department, and, after telling a completely uninterested person my problem in as much detail as possible so that even a customer-service agent can understand it, I'm put on hold and then transferred to a second person and made to repeat the entire situation over again.

"This dog isn't white," I said, trying to cut her off before she could say it herself. "You don't know if the people who used to live here had a dog, do you? Have you been babysitting here a long time?"

"Just a few months."

"It says 'call Ignacio' under the address on the tag, but the number is out of service. Do you know anyone with that name?"

"No, but I can ask Mr. Fernandez when he gets back," she said.

"Don't worry about it. I'll ask the neighbors. Sorry to have bothered you."

I walked around the building looking for the mailboxes. In the center of the building, there was a locked, tinted-glass door leading down to the washing machines, and right inside the door, set in the wall, were the boxes. I could see labels scotch-taped to them, but I couldn't make out the names because the labels were curling up at the edges. I didn't want to sit around waiting for someone to come along, and anyway, Ignacio clearly hadn't been staying there. It didn't seem worth the wait just to find out this Fernandez guy's first name, so I got back in the Charger and drove home.

30

The next day I checked my email again, but all I got was a no-new-messages alert. It had been a while since I had sent that message to Helen, so I was sure she had read it. That meant that she was ignoring me on purpose, which I found really surprising since normally you can't make women stop talking even when you want them to. It now seemed to me that the only thing worse than a woman telling you every thought that goes through her head is when she stops doing that, because it means something really bad has happened.

I picked up my shit phone and dialed her number a few times, but she didn't pick up. I left some messages, but I had the feeling I was just going to make her upset with them and give her even more excuses not to answer me. I could already hear her saying "Why doesn't he just leave me alone?" I suddenly had the feeling that I had crossed the line and that Helen had already re-organized her universe, putting me somewhere in the background with a new title, like "ex-boyfriend, potential casual friend." Maybe I'd be the ex-boyfriend girls were always talking about chatting on the phone with, that ex that always seems to be hovering around so that you know if you screw up, she'll go crying over to his house and end up getting done.

As nice as that last bit sounded, I couldn't let that happen, so I jumped in the Charger and started driving out to Helen's sister's place. About half way there, I had a panic attack, thinking that everything had ended for good without me even realizing. I hit the gas and started weaving around people like mad. The part of my brain that registered things like speed limits and laws of physics sunk into the background, and even when there was not enough space to change lanes, I did it anyway. People hit their brakes, swerved, changed lanes, and honked like maniacs, and since I no longer cared about traffic rules, I rolled down my window and stuck my hand out, preparing to give them all the finger. And then it hit me all at once: I was becoming a male Gertie. I didn't quite know what to do with that thought, so I tucked it back in my brain for later. I slowed down and merged back into the normal flow of traffic, accepting all the angry looks from the people I'd pissed off.

When I got to the house, I knocked on the door and waited. I heard moving around inside, but no one came to the door.

"Helen?" I said. "It's me. I need to know something. I need to know if you're ever going to talk to me again."

The door cracked open a little. She stood there looking at me for a long time and then stepped out.

"Come with me for a minute. I've got something to tell you," she said and led me into the backyard. We sat down on a porch swing that was suspended from the branch of a huge shade tree and started rocking a little. I was waiting for her to start talking, but the silence was killing me.

"Did you get the email I sent? Because I—"

"Just listen," she said, looking straight forward. "The restaurant, the slap—it doesn't matter. None of that matters." She paused for a long time. We sat rocking slowly, looking off toward nothing, listening to the noise the ropes holding up the swing made as they rubbed against the tree branch. "I wish you had shown me something—that you were scared, upset, or worried—when it was important. I wanted you to make a serious commitment to me, and it was like you wouldn't even consider it. I knew you were afraid because of the way your family turned out, and I know the drinking was to hide it all inside, but you never told me how you felt. I started thinking that no matter how much I loved you, we could never have a future together because when I was ready to take the next step, you disappeared emotionally."

I sat there, rocking back and forth, thinking about what she had just said. I was trying to pull something out of that, to say something important about why I had acted that way, but I was worried I'd say something stupid, and to be honest, I had been so blitzed all the time that I couldn't remember exactly what I had thought.

"And you know," she continued, "when I saw you after we split up, you looked great. It only took you a couple of months to get everything together. You're doing better than ever before, and it's without me. I think that's why I slapped you so fast—I was angry that you could do this for yourself, but not for me, for us."

"But I love you," I said.

"I know you do, in your way. Even when we were going through everything, I knew you loved me. But what does it matter if it doesn't cause you to do things for us? If you love someone, but that love doesn't guide you toward something—a common goal, a future together—then it's just the kind of love that makes the person you're with suffer in the long run."

I felt pain at the top of my throat. There it was—the proof that I was responsible for making her unhappy. I tried to open my mouth to say something, but I just ended up crying and then trying to fight back the tears. Helen put her hand on my shoulder, but I shook it off and stood up. I couldn't stand anyone seeing me cry like that, so I turned away. After a few minutes I tried to choke everything back, and I turned around again to look at her.

"I'm so sorry," I said, wanting to say so many things that I couldn't. I felt everything welling up in me again. I gestured with my hand to say give me a minute, but I couldn't get control of myself enough to speak. "I'm sorry," I said again quickly and took off.

31

On Monday I went back into training mode with Gertie. Halfway through the week I got a call on the shit phone. It was Grant. I answered it, and, after the usual amount of desperate "hellos" while moving around to get a better signal, the connection cleared up.

"Did you take a look at my movie?" I asked.

"I took a look at the awful handwriting and coffee stains, and then tossed it aside. But when I was getting my things together for a meeting, I noticed the name of your lead female character. I mentioned the coincidence to Steven, and he asked me to bring it to him."

"So what did he say?"

"He said he wanted to know where you wanted to go with this," said Grant.

"Well, I was hoping to get a little advance for the first part and then get the rest of the money when I finish the job."

"He's going to want to see more before he signs any checks. You're lucky he even looked at the thing, so I wouldn't push it. Oh, and is the version you sent me the only copy you have of it?"

"Yeah, so tell Spieldburt not to lose it. Also, tell him he'll get more soon."

"It's pronounced Spie—" and here I hung up on prissy Grant, since now he needed me more than I needed him.

After another week of work with Gertie was over, I went back to Culver City to hang out with my writing buddies, caffed myself up again, and spewed out the next installment of my disguised report. I was careful not to reveal too much, because I definitely wasn't going to tell him everything until I had a little of his money. The way I saw it, he'd be so anxious after reading act two that I could make him deliver the dough before I handed the last one over. It took me a couple of hours of frantic scribbling to finish. I then took it to Fed-ex and mailed it immediately.

32

SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER

Act 2

By Lonnie Herisson

INT. LONNIE HERISSON'S BEDROOM - MORNING

Our hero, LONNIE HERISSON, looking particularly downtrodden, combs his hair in the mirror. He picks up a picture of a beautiful woman and looks at it longingly. Then he picks up the strange gun and stares resolutely into the mirror.

LONNIE HERISSON

I'm going to get this Supplementary Terrian Dweller for you, babe.

The shit phone rings.

LONNIE HERISSON

(Into the phone)

Hi Gertie. Are you ready for me?

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Off screen)

Oh yeah. My website got a hit. Get down to my office.

LONNIE hangs up, knowing, like all people in movies know and tacitly agree on, exactly when a conversation has reached its end point, thus eliminating completely the need to state "goodbye."

EXT. CULVER CITY PARKING LOT - LATER

LONNIE gets out of a green Mercedes and walks over to GERTIE ELLIOT's real-estate office.

INT. GERTIE ELLIOT'S REAL-ESTATE OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

GERTIE is seated at her desk working on the computer. LONNIE enters and sits down in front of the desk. GERTIE turns the monitor so that they can both see it. LONNIE looks into her eyes to see if she's under the trance of the SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER. Her eyes look normal. GERTIE notices him staring and smiles a little.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Here are the potential clients, Jacob and Abigail Ritter. They scored 95% on my bible quiz.

LONNIE HERISSON

Bible quiz? I never took you for the religious type.

GERTIE ELLIOT

To sell a house, I'll be any religion you like. Take a look at this. I've given this web address to all the churches on the west side. When they come to the home page, they can't even access the listings until they pass the quiz, and believe me, this thing is hard. Most people don't even get half of the questions right. They have to register, so if they flunk it, they can't take it a second time.

LONNIE HERISSON

But then you lose a customer.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Not at all. Word gets around, and then they all get curious. The ones that manage to pass this thing can't wait to rub it in everyone's face. I even go to their church to meet with them the first time. Every time I walk into a place, the people stare at me, waiting to see who was good enough to be christened by The Gert. You're going with me on this one.

GERTIE gets up and heads over to her things that she has left in the two-chair waiting area. LONNIE gives her a good looking over.

LONNIE HERISSON (voice over)

Damn! The dress she has on will never allow me to stick my weird gun in her navel! Unless I lift it up really fast...

LONNIE cringes at this disgusting thought.

GERTIE rummages through a shopping bag. She pulls out a large pink polo shirt.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Put this on.

LONNIE stands up and takes the shirt. He removes his classy shirt, revealing an Arnold T-shirt. He then puts on the pink polo, which is definitely too small and hugs all his roundness. While he is changing, GERTIE watches lasciviously.

LONNIE HERISSON

This really looks like crap.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Oh no. It's almost perfect.

GERTIE steps up close to LONNIE. She buttons the shirt all the way up. Then, before he even realizes what she's doing, she tucks it in, her hands going a little farther south of the waistline than appreciated.

GERTIE ELLIOT

There you go.

LONNIE HERISSON

This is terrible! I look like a tool!

GERTIE ELLIOT

Yep. A tool people will feel so sorry for that they'll never question your faith. You take a great looking, stylish guy and stick him in a church and people get suspicious. They start testing him, and then they figure him out. Go in like this, and you'll never raise an eyebrow.

INT./EXT. THE '78 ELDORADO BIARRITZ - LATER

GERTIE is driving and LONNIE is in the passenger seat. They are headed toward Redondo Beach. With a cigarette in her mouth and her eyes half closed to avoid the smoke, GERTIE fishes a piece of paper out of her purse and hands it to LONNIE.

GERTIE ELLIOT

We're going to a Pentecostal church. These people have the worst sense of humor. I've collected these sayings off of their signs for years. All you have to do is use one or two of them, and you'll be in good with everyone. I made those first two up myself.

LONNIE looks at the paper.

LONNIE HERISSON

"He got nailed for you." Hmm... "He turned his water into wine. How many times have you drunk from the urn in all?" If this is what they like, I'll say it.

GERTIE ELLIOT

They do something you're going to love at this place. Just follow my lead.

EXT. PENTECOSTAL CHURCH IN REDONDO BEACH - LATER

The Eldorado pulls into the parking lot. GERTIE opens the glove compartment and pulls out an aerosol can. She begins spraying it on herself as if it were perfume.

LONNIE HERISSON

Yuck! What is that foul crap?

GERTIE ELLIOT

It's toilet freshener—vanilla mint. These people believe that the meek shall inherit the earth. That means if I walk in there with Chanel #5, I got nowhere to go but down.

LONNIE HERISSON

That's weird...I'm so used to that scent covering up poo smell that I can almost smell poo now.

LONNIE and GERTIE get out and walk over to the front door, where a smiling, nerdy youth hands out programs. LONNIE takes one. He looks at the title. It reads "How to tell your acquaintances they're practically burning in hell already while serving food at a barbecue, part two."

INT. PENTECOSTAL CHURCH IN REDONDO BEACH - CONTINUOUS

The interior of the church has the feel of a warehouse. There are basketball goals, retracted for today's sermon, at both ends of the rectangular room. Folding chairs are arranged in rows facing a temporary stage set up against one of the long walls. The stage is surrounded by P.A. speakers, and there is a projector screen set up in the middle of it. A refreshment stand, featuring an assortment of powdered drinks, is in one of the back corners.

People are filling in the seats, holding their bibles and plastic cups of sugary, fluorescent beverages. GERTIE and LONNIE head to the front row, where JACOB and ABIGAIL RITTER stand to greet them. Both JACOB and ABIGAIL look as though they have never seen the sun and have hand sewn their clothes. Several worshipers watch jealously and whisper once they see GERTIE talking with them.

GERTIE ELLIOT

And here they are, all the way from Kansas! Are you adjusting to the area okay?

ABIGAIL glances around to make sure no one is close enough to hear, and then leans in and talks softly to GERTIE and LONNIE.

ABIGAIL RITTER

To tell the truth, I now understand why the church relocated us out here. When we signed up to be missionaries, I thought we'd end up in Africa, but they were right: these people are in much more urgent need of being saved. We only arrived yesterday, but I've already seen...

(Whispering)

A member!

JACOB RITTER

Now Abigail, that man was a long way away. You were in no danger.

GERTIE introduces LONNIE. They all shake hands.

There is movement in front, so everyone sits down. A DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR in an expensive baggy suit, and a motley collection of musicians, all of whose instruments feature at least one sticker proclaiming the varying extent to which Jesus rocks, take their places on the stage. The DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR signals for the band to start. They begin playing a three-chord song, the lyrics of which make LONNIE uncomfortable as they largely concern being touched in an unspecified way. The DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR raises his hands and begins to gyrate arrhythmically. The congregation takes this as a cue and does the same.

LONNIE, confused, looks at GERTIE.

GERTIE ELLIOT

I never said selling houses was easy.

GERTIE raises her hands in the air and joins the others. LONNIE, after much hesitation, does the same.

The musicians, worrying that even this audience will tire of the same three chords, begin a disastrous improvisation, punctuated by exaggerated facial expressions. No individual member of the congregation wanting to be the kill joy, they all continue their embarrassing epileptic communion.

GERTIE looks around and sees everyone's eyes closed in intense worship. She starts reaching over toward LONNIE's fun parts. LONNIE, feeling her hands nearing their target, opens his eyes and sees GERTIE's serpentine, possessed eyes. The SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER is attacking!

LONNIE HERISSON

ARRRGGGGHHH! Jesus!

The congregation imitates LONNIE, screaming "arrrggghhh! Jesus!" LONNIE runs toward the stage and is quickly surrounded by worshipers. He looks over to see GERTIE laughing evilly. Then, all at once, her eyes return to normal, and she is surprised to see LONNIE dancing with the others.

The DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR steps up to the microphone.

DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR

Thank you. Please take your seats.

LONNIE, a bit spooked, returns to his seat.

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Whispering to Lonnie)

Wow. That was some show.

LONNIE looks at GERTIE suspiciously.

DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR

Last Sunday, I explained to you how to handle the barbecue situation when you find yourself serving the burgers and dogs, or whatever your main course be.

OVER-ZEALOUS CHURCH GOER

Amen!

DANGEROUSLY THIN PASTOR

Yes, amen indeed! But that was the easy part, for even the most unapologetic atheist will listen to you tell him he's going to the eternal fires in order to have that delicious burger on his plate. In part two of my series, I explain how to go about it should you find yourself holding the potato- or Jell-O-salad spoon, for no man will listen to harrowing news for such a meager pay off. Without the proper technique, you'll find that your heathens speed off, back to their wickedness, and you'll lose soul after soul.

LONNIE begins to zone out. The words become distant mumblings. His expression is one of worry. He watches GERTIE from the corner of his eye, waiting for the DWELLER to return.

EXT. PENTECOSTAL CHURCH IN REDONDO BEACH - LATER

GERTIE, LONNIE, ABIGAIL and JACOB exit the church. They wave goodbye on the way to their cars.

GERTIE ELLIOT

We'll visit the house tomorrow. Bless you two!

JACOB and ABIGAIL smile giddily, get in their angular Chrysler and drive away.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

For fuck's sake I thought that would never end! But you were amazing. This calls for a celebration.

INT. ISLANDS RESTAURANT - LATER

GERTIE and LONNIE sit at a bar table at Islands restaurant, the only restaurant that successfully answers the question "what if we could combine burger-and-fry obesity with a tropical-island, grass-skirt theme?" They are drinking margaritas on the rocks.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Do you have any idea how much money I'm going to make tomorrow? You know, one beautiful thing about this city is that there's always a fresh wave of suckers looking to move here. No sooner do you kick one weary soul out than another starry-eyed wannabe is lining up to pay whatever price you ask. That's why you never negotiate and you always raise the rent, no matter how the economy is doing.

LONNIE takes a long drink of margarita.

LONNIE HERISSON

Yeah, I guess that's cool.

GERTIE does a double take.

GERTIE ELLIOT

What do you mean "you guess?" Are you going soft on me?

LONNIE stares into his margarita and then looks into GERTIE's eyes, unable to speak.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

Ah...I see. You've fallen for The Gert. It's normal. I'm powerful, mysterious, and successful—I'm in control and you aim to please. You will make a great real-estate agent, won't you!

LONNIE HERISSON

I hope so, but it's not that. I've lost the best thing I ever had in life, and it's finally eating me up.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Why don't you buy me another margarita and tell me all about it. There's no love position I haven't been in.

LONNIE tells GERTIE all about his love life, his desire to win Helen back, and how he feels powerless to change things.

INT. LONNIE HERISSON'S HOUSE - NIGHT

LONNIE sits on the couch watching television. He hears a knock on the door.

LONNIE HERISSON

It's open!

The door opens. It's GERTIE, holding some papers.

GERTIE ELLIOT

I forgot to give you these. They're next week's targets.

LONNIE takes the stack of papers and looks them over.

LONNIE HERISSON

These are police reports...

GERTIE ELLIOT

I've got connections in the force. These are all from home owners who have lodged multiple complaints against their neighbors. I'm going to need you to study these and come up with ways to up the ante. One of the bad neighbors keeps taking a whiz on his neighbor's property. Maybe you could save up a few gallons and pour it all over in the middle of the night. I'll offer my services the very next day. Just an idea.

LONNIE HERISSON

You came all the way over here just to give me these? I could've got them in the morning.

GERTIE glances toward the guest room.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Well, I haven't said hello to your charming roommate in a while. Is he in?

LONNIE HERISSON

(Calling out)

Hey Tommy! Come on out a minute.

The guest-room door opens, and out walks TOMMY, a muscular, handsome Frenchman with a full head of wavy hair. His shirt is half unbuttoned, revealing a tanned, hairless chest. He has an air of mystery about him. One could even say he looked as if he were concealing something. He speaks with a very light accent.

TOMMY

Gertie! I'm so glad you dropped by. How have you been?

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Coquettishly)

Oh, you know. Working away. A girl's gotta make a living. Come have a glass of wine with us. Lonnie was just going to open a bottle.

LONNIE HERISSON

I was? Oh yeah. Let me go get that.

LONNIE gets up and goes into the kitchen. TOMMY sits down on the couch. GERTIE sits down right next to him, even though the couch is quite long.

From the kitchen, LONNIE hears small talk and laughing. With bottle and glasses in hand, he returns to the living room. He immediately notices that GERTIE has placed her hand on TOMMY's muscular leg.

LONNIE HERISSON

So Gertie, how is Steven doing? That is the love of your life's name, right?

GERTIE scowls slightly at LONNIE.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Never heard of him.

LONNIE opens the bottle and pours the wine.

LONNIE HERISSON

Well, I'm sure he's thinking about you.

They all toast. The small talk continues. After half an hour, LONNIE begins to yawn.

LONNIE HERISSON (CONT'D)

Time to hit the hay. Talk to you tomorrow, Gertie.

LONNIE gets up, expecting GERTIE to stand as well.

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Remains seated)

Okay. Sweet dreams, right-hand man.

LONNIE heads to his room. As he closes his bedroom door, he peeks out into the living room. He feels horribly worried. Will GERTIE take the innocent flirting to the next level and cheat on her lover? Should LONNIE, in reality a private investigator hired by GERTIE's lover, step in and break it up before discovering if she would really go through with it or not? Should LONNIE be worried that GERTIE will transfer the SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER to TOMMY, thus moving it one step closer to its final objective: returning to LONNIE? All of these questions and more will be answered in the final installment!

33

I leaned back and admired my work. Spieldburt was definitely going to be on the edge of his seat after this one, and no matter what kind of negotiating he did, he wasn't going to see one more page until I had some money.

That reminded me, it was about time I got some photos of the old gal in the sack to go along with the third act. I'd been putting it off for as long as possible because seeing Tommy naked had already freaked me out enough. He and Gertie together could do me—I mean cause me—some serious psychological damage.

I turned a few pages and noticed that I had spelled all sorts of things weird. There were even a few paragraphs where it looked like some kind of localized dyslexia had kicked in, and I could barely make out what I had written. I thought about fixing all this stuff, but then realized that's what people like Grant are for. How many times had I heard about famous L.A. movie-producer guys who had the dumbest ideas, but who pulled together a team of poor suckers from all over the country to work like slaves cleaning everything up? "Hey guys, I got an idea: There's some kind of disaster, maybe an earthquake, tornado, giant asteroid—whatever—and then there's like a hero, but different in some tiny way from all the other heroes that have been out recently. Maybe this one has OCD, so he has to turn the light switches on and off 25 times before he can pull anyone out of burning buildings—what the hell do I know? Anyway, everybody would've died if this guy, girl, or trained dog, didn't do something amazing at the end. And then, when everybody's safe and happy, they do it. Okay, write all my sweet ideas up on your fancy computers. You won't get any writing credit for this one since it is my idea, after all." I decided to mail it as is. I'm sure nothing ever arrives on someone's desk looking professional. An editor always goes through it and makes it readable before it gets to the public eye, so Spieldburt was probably used to seeing crappy spelling and whatnot when he read through first drafts.

All my writer buddies seemed really stressed out. It didn't help things for them that I was always coming here and writing as fast as possible and then leaving all happy with myself. I had noticed a few of them giving me bitter looks from time to time as I smashed a period or zorroed a question mark onto the ends of my sentences.

"Come on guys, why the long faces?" I asked.

"Don't say long faces!" said Scarf-Guy Al. "I can't stand long faces anymore!"

"Let's get it together," said Pee-Smelling, Old-Birkenstock Jerry. "We can't lose hope on this one. If the world wants another movie from old Horse Face, we'll come up with it."

"Huh?" I asked.

"The studio has already chucked three scripts for a new Jessica Mary Valet movie, so they brought us in. They've already started filming the thing in New York," said USC-Shirt Jake.

"Without a script?" I asked.

"Half of every movie she makes is filmed without a script. The cameras follow her around while she shops for shoes, and they stick all of Jessica's friends together at a table and film them while they talk about penises and giggle. Hollywood feminism is more or less about proving that women can be just as stupid as men," said Pocket-Watch Eddy. "And normally I'm fine with that, but now that I'm the one who's got to write it...And the thing that makes everything really hard now is that old Horse Face had her trade-mark mole removed. Before, she could say any line and it would be just as edgy as her face, but now that she's going all mainstream on us, she's harder to write for."

"Let's ask Arnold-Shirt Lonnie for advice, since he's been writing up a storm lately," said USC-Shirt Jake, and I just about flipped because that was the first time I had heard my official writing name.

"My ex used to watch her stuff. You gotta make the ladies want to do something wrong when they watch Horse Face's movies," I said.

"Believe me, everything that can be considered wrong has already been done to her," said Scarf-Guy Al. "That's why we're dying here! They've almost filmed all the shoe buying and penis giggling they can. They're hounding us for the script every hour!"

"Just take the most popular topic of the day and let her go at it," I said.

"I can't think of anything that hasn't already been done," said Scarf-Guy Al.

"You're missing the most obvious thing—religious extremism. Here's what you do: old Horse Face is sitting around talking about a penis mole or something—you know, she'll be anxious to make fun of that kind of thing now that she's had her own mole removed—and then she sees a bunch of people coming out of a mosque. All the chicks are covered from head to toe. You can only see their eyes. Then she sees the most handsome extremist she's ever seen in her life, and he's ordering his woman around like a dog, and this turns her on. So she rushes out of the cafe and follows the guy home. Then she goes off and buys her own veils and crap, and when the wife is off at the store, Horse Face puts on the veils, sneaks into the apartment and does the dude, who pretends not to suspect anything even though she has a pasty white ass. She starts doing this regularly and tells her friends all about her forbidden penis adventures. Then one day while they are getting it on, he rips off her veil and tells her he loves her like he has loved no other contaminated infidel in his life. She doesn't want to ruin his marriage, so after endless, waffling conversations with her friends, she breaks it off. He comes crying at her window several times, but she buckles down and doesn't give in."

"That's kind of a downer of an ending," said USC-Shirt Jake.

"It doesn't end there. While out taking a walk, really reflecting about her life and the ideal penis, a super-rich guy in a limousine stops and asks her for directions. After one of those 'one-year-later' breaks in the film, they get married. With all that money, she buys some new shoes."

"That's kind of random, but then so is everything else she does. Okay, let's do it guys," said Pocket-Watch Eddy.

34

I left the guys to their writing and headed back to Dennis' house to pick up the big poodle. When I arrived, I saw Tommy pacing in front of the gate. With all the training and writing, I had forgotten to keep an eye on this guy, and here he was again doing who knows what, maybe keeping tabs on me. He had this strange look on his face, and his lips were moving like he was practicing saying something. I parked the Charger and walked up to him.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

He was burning with rage, but he had to keep it in check to get the words to come out of his mouth.

"You are doing ze love to Gairtee!"

"What? Have you lost your mind?" I asked.

"You are togezair all ze time. I call hhher tonight. I hhhear noises and lawfing. She hhhang up. I call second time, no responding."

"I was with friends all night, writing this," I said and held up the script. "I promise. There's nothing between Gertie and me. Why would I want to do that?" His facial expressions changed to show his relief.

"I yam vairy touch-ed zat you would not do zat to me," he said.

"No, I meant I wouldn't want to do...Yeah, that's exactly what I meant. Look Tommy, have you talked to Gertie about not seeing anyone else? Maybe she doesn't know that's what you want."

"I yuh...will talking to hhher," he said.

"Good idea. Hey, come inside a minute. I want you to meet my dad."

Tommy followed me in. The place was a wreck since I hadn't had time to clean it in a while. My dad was on the couch playing chess.

"Hi Dad. Look who I brought—the Talking Man, right?" I figured that if Tommy was the one who had tried to break in and that if he had actually just been bullshitting me about the Gertie thing as an excuse to come spy on me, I'd find out now.

"No. I don't know that guy," he said and went back to playing chess.

"Okay, well, good night Dad," I said, but he was too involved in his game to answer.

I felt relieved to know it wasn't Tommy, but at the same time, I now had no idea who had tried to break into Dennis' house. Maybe it had just been a robber.

Tommy, Ballsack and I strolled back home. When we got there, Tommy tried to call Gertie a few times, but there was no answer. He tried to take his mind off of it by playing his guitar, but since he could only play a few chords really slowly, he soon got tired of that. I put a movie on the tube and invited him to come watch it with me. When the actors would say something vulgar, I explained what it meant to him. That seemed to make him feel better.

35

The next morning when I was looking for something to wear, all of my Dennis clothes were dirty, so I took out a pair of my own pants that I hadn't worn for almost two months. When I put them on, I was amazed at how loose they were. I must have lost forty pounds since the last time I'd put those things on. I was also amazed at how repulsed I was by them. I had gotten spoiled by all of Dennis' nice stuff, and I couldn't see myself going back now. I made a big pile of clothes I knew I'd never wear anymore and threw it all into a trash bag. Then I put on the least smelly Dennis pants I could find, grabbed the trash bag and the big poodle, and walked toward the Third Street Promenade to the nearest clothing donation box. I crammed all that stuff into the metal tray and slid it shut, sending my clothes to the bottom with a dull thud.

I continued over to the Promenade and walked around looking for a store I could shop in that didn't look like a night club. The Levi's store fit the bill, but when I walked in, an employee told me I couldn't bring such a big dog into the store. I stepped back out and was looking for a place to tie Ballsack up when I saw Amanda, the little girl I had met in West Hollywood, walking with a man I assumed was her dad. I went up to them to say hello.

"Hi Amanda," I said. She looked over at me and saw the big poodle. She got a scared look on her face and hid behind her dad.

"It's okay. That dog won't bite you," said the man. He looked up at me for a moment. "I'm sorry, I can't place you. Do you work at Amanda's school?"

"No. I was in your neighborhood the other day asking about a lost dog. I talked with your babysitter." Amanda was still hiding, so I started feeling kind of creepy. "I didn't realize she'd be so afraid of my dog. Sorry about that. I'll let you go."

"Don't worry about it. We used to have a black poodle, and one day she stepped on it and it bit her. She was so scared of it from then on that we had to give it away." He leaned over and picked Amanda up so she'd feel safer.

"Bad dog!" said Amanda, pointing at the big poodle.

"You used to have a black poodle like this one?" I asked.

"Well, ours was just a puppy, but he was supposed to get big like that. Yours looks like he could use a good shearing."

"Yeah, I think he's got something wrong with his hair. It keeps growing out like crazy. Hey, just curious—what did you call your dog?"

"Manolete," he said. The big poodle snapped his head around and started wagging like crazy. "But I didn't name him. He never looked like a Manolete to me. The friend that gave him to me is Spanish. He told me that it was the name of a famous bullfighter, which to me seemed ridiculous, naming a poodle after a bullfighter."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, enjoy your afternoon. Nice running into you again, Amanda," I said and waved. She turned her head and pressed her face against her dad's neck so she couldn't see me. Her dad gave me a "what-can-you-do?" look and continued walking.

My guess was that Ignacio had given the dog to his renters as a moving-in "present." Gertie had mentioned something about doing that. When you know you want to renovate in about a year, you give your current renters a dog and then make them cough up a pet deposit. When they move out, you keep the pet deposit and the security deposit, since the dog will definitely have peed all over the carpets, which you were going to replace anyway. Ignacio probably hadn't counted on having to take the dog back, so he recycled the present to Dennis to get rid of it.

I tied the big poodle to a tree near a street musician. I always saw this guy on the Promenade. He was much fatter than me, especially now that I had lost so much weight. He had stringy, greasy hair, and he always wore the same super-sized, faded blue T-shirt and the same pair of enormous, patched jeans. Sometimes he played electric guitar and sang with a partner. Other times he had a beat-up acoustic and would go at it alone. He played a kind of mixture of southern rock and hair metal, occasionally sliding his fingers around fast and shaking his dirty long hair everywhere. Nobody ever stopped to watch this guy because less than a block on down there was usually an urban dance squad or a lovely, cowboy-boot-clad girl who sang love songs. The only thing this guy could believably sing about loving was chicken wings. I threw a few dollars into his guitar case and pointed to the dog. He nodded as he strummed away.

I picked out a couple of pairs of jeans and some western-style shirts, which looked great unbuttoned over my Arnold. As I was paying at the register, the shit phone rang. It was my buddy Grant.

"Wow," I said. "You got act two fast!"

"Yes, that is what happens when you send something by overnight express. You send it one day, and it arrives on the following day. Amazing, isn't it? If you had actually typed it, you could have sent it even faster."

"Ah, you're just grouchy because you don't get to treat me like garbage now that your boss likes my work."

The cashier handed me the credit-card slip to sign, so I whipped out the Montblanc and let him feast his eyes on success.

"That's why I called you. Steven would like to meet with you," said Grant.

The cashier handed me the clear-plastic sack with my clothes inside. I mouthed "thank you," and started walking out of the store.

"I bet he does," I said. "I'm sure he can't wait to find out what happens next. You want me to pop over to the studio?"

"No. Steven said he wanted to keep this a secret for now. He wants to meet you tomorrow at the La Brea tar pits, in front of the skeleton of the giant ground sloth."

"The what?"

"The sloth. Those animals that hang in trees and move so slowly that plants grow in their fur. But thousands of years ago, they walked around on the ground and were bigger than bears."

"Wow, that's really exciting."

"Fuck you."

"No, really. Tell me more."

"Be there at three," he said. I don't know who hung up on who first.

36

I took off early Sunday afternoon in the Mercedes and drove east on Wilshire Boulevard. The tar pits were past Beverly Hills, on the stretch known as the Miracle Mile. It's called that because back in the day, someone got the great idea of trying to compete with downtown L.A. there. I find this hilarious because when you arrive at the tar pits, you see all this bubbling tar all over the place that seeps up from who the hell knows where, and the very last thing any sane person would say is, "hey, wouldn't a shopping center go wonderfully with these boiling pools of death?"

I drove behind the museum and, as always in L.A., paid a suspicious amount for parking to an unsympathetic attendant who looked like he was waiting for me to say a code word that would identify me as the buyer of whatever drug he was peddling. I got out of the car and walked over to a paved path leading around the grounds. There were little black pools of bubbling tar everywhere, sometimes covered with a thin layer of water from the sprinklers. I really had the impression that the tar I could see was like the tip of the iceberg and that the whole place was on the verge of sliding down into the inky muck.

I was staring down at the tar so much that I didn't notice the life-sized replica of the giant ground sloth, in attack position, until I was right up next to it. I'd have been freaked out by it, but since it was a sloth, I could have taken a little nap once he started to attack and then gotten up and wandered slowly away. Rats! Foiled again! No wonder these things had hung around the tar pits. You'd have to be stuck in the tar for hours before the thing made it over to you.

I followed the trail around to the front of the museum to look at the biggest pool of tar. It was bigger than an Olympic swimming pool, and there were life-sized models of mammoths to make you feel like you were some sort of cave dude back in the day. Two mammoths, an adult and a baby, were on the edge of the pool watching another adult mammoth sink into the sticky tar.

All that is right next to Wilshire Boulevard, which runs through Beverly Hills all the way to the ocean and is lined with the most expensive stores you can imagine. You can drive by the mammoths and then continue to Rodeo drive and see all the babemmoths and trophy-wifemmoths trying to avoid the bitter gazes of the alimonymmoths, who angrily flash credit cards as if they were razor-sharp teeth.

It was the perfect image of L.A.: All the luxury in the world sitting on a thin crust of habitable space, on the verge of sliding down into inky oblivion and being forgotten. Add to that an unbreathable atmosphere, a serious lack of water, and the occasional forest fire, mudslide or earthquake, and you could wonder why people ever came out here in the first place. You could wonder, that is, if you were from someplace else, but when you live here, you know. The fake mammoths they put in the tar are great, but on the other side of the pool, they should have put people standing around with cocktails and Louis Vuitton bags, and twenty feet into the pool, some poor schmuck stuck in the tar with a handful of cash, smiling madly as he sinks away.

That reminded me, it was time for me to go get my money.

I walked up the path to the center of the park, where the huge, perfectly square museum had been built into the side of a small hill, kind of like one of those ecologically friendly houses. When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was that in the center of the museum they had built a glassed-in plant exhibit that looked like a jungle, with birds flying around. All the other exhibits were arranged around it.

I paid the entry fee, and the cashier stuck a little square sticker of a mammoth on my shirt as proof that I had paid. I walked in, passed up the introductory educational movie, and entered the first series of exhibits. The giant ground sloth was one of the first things I saw. The bones were all black from the tar, so it looked much more evil than the fake version outside. It was standing up on its back feet and balancing itself with its thick tail. The little plaque said that ground sloths were herbivores, but since it went extinct, I'm guessing that even a carrot gave this big ugly thing a run for its money.

I looked for Spieldburt, but he wasn't there yet, so I walked around for a while longer. Most of the collection was of wolves, which I didn't find that interesting, but the mammoth and saber-toothed tiger skeletons were worth the price of admission. I liked to imagine them coming to life and gouging all the tourists with their six-foot-long tusks, taking revenge on the people for having pulled them out of their final resting places. Then I came to something crazy. I've already said that I normally don't read much, but there was an enormous geological time line on the wall with all sorts of dates and explanations. I wasn't going to read any of that crap, of course—I mean, who goes to a museum to read? I could not do that at home just as easily—but a group of people were at one section acting all amazed, so I went over there.

It turns out that in all the excavating they've done—and they've dug thousands and thousands of years into the past—only one chick has ever been thrown into the tar pits. Don't get me wrong—I'm not saying that more women deserved to be thrown in. It's just that, knowing what we know about modern society, you have to wonder if people in the past were a lot nicer than they are now. Imagine if the tar pits were open to the public 24 hours a day and there was no security. You're telling me that not a single modern guy would throw his mother-in-law in? Not a single cheating ex-girlfriend would be "swimming with the mammoths?" Oh hell yeah, they would. And there'd be lots of dudes in there, too. Dudes who whack off to the internet after their women go to bed. Dudes who obsess over which local sports team made up of non-local players is better than someone else's local sports team made up of other non-local players. Yeah, I'd probably chuck a few of those in myself.

I went back to the giant ground sloth and waited behind a group of visitors who were trying to explain to a young girl of about seven that this big thing was a sloth.

"Sloths look like monkeys and live in trees," she said. "This looks like a bear."

"Yes, but it's related to the little sloth," said a woman.

"Is it the little sloth's grandpa?"

"Not exactly. Ask your biology tutor tonight," she said.

"I don't have biology tonight. I have ice skating and then the junior dolphins' dive club."

Most of these rich L.A. kids don't realize that what they really have are "mommy-needs-a-free-hour-to-have-an-affair" classes. If I get married some day and my wife ever tells me something like "I signed our daughter up for Brazilian martial-arts class," I'm calling a divorce lawyer immediately.

The group moved on toward the mammoth, leaving behind one person who glanced shiftily around. I got up close enough to look underneath the lowered bill of his baseball cap. It was him. I was finally going to get to talk with Spieldburt again.

I stepped up right next to him and cleared my throat a little. He looked over.

"Herisson?" he asked. This guy had a short memory, but I guess it was true that he hadn't seen me in a long time and that I'd lost some weight since then.

"At your service," I said, and he rolled his eyes.

"You'll never pull this off."

"I already know everything I need to know. I'm just waiting for a little advance before I lay it on you."

"An advance? Are you out of your mind? How do I know you have anything that could do any damage?"

"I've been working with Gertie on this. Believe me, I know everything."

"What has she told you!" he said, grabbing me by my Arnold. I pulled myself free and stepped back.

"You'll find out, but you better have the money ready. I'm talking five grand!"

"Five grand? You're doing all this for five grand? What are you, stupid?"

"That's the going rate. You get it ready, and when I have the third act prepared with the photos, I'll set up a time to meet through Grant." Spieldburt looked relieved to hear all this.

"Fine," he said, slightly stunned, and continued on through the museum.

I doubled back to the entrance and stopped in the gift store. They had a stuffed version of a ground sloth that I had to buy. I also picked up a cool vial of tar.

37

When I got back to the parking lot, I saw Grant's car. He was ducked down low in the driver seat peeking over at me, so I pretended not to see him. I got in the car and pulled out slowly. Sure enough, his metallic-blue, sun-bleached hatchback rattled out after me.

I started out driving reasonably but then decided to pull a Gert on him. I weaved wildly all over Wilshire Boulevard, sped up randomly, and then slowed down so much that I felt like a turtle. Along one stretch, I darted ahead so far that I couldn't see him anymore, turned into a parking lot and waited for him to pass me. Then I got back on the road and raced ahead of him, not making the slightest indication that I was on to him as I passed right by. I felt like a killer whale playing with a hapless seal before the final crunch.

I was about to lose him for good when I asked myself why prissy, New-England Grant would be following me anyway. I figured the only way to find out would be to let him continue. I started driving normally, and I could almost hear his car wheeze a sigh of relief. I drove like that all the way to Dennis' house, making sure not to lose Grant at the intersections.

I parked in the driveway and got out. Grant parked right in front of the neighboring house and ducked down again. I actually had to make an effort not to look over at him. All that expensive education and not a lick of common sense. I entered the house, went up to Dennis' room and took a peek out the window with the binoculars.

He was dialing on his cell phone, which looked a lot more expensive than his car. I wanted to hear what he was saying, so I broke out the parabolic microphone.

"...back to his house. No, there's no way he saw me. For how long? Okay. Who? Who's that? Well, how will I recognize her? All right," said Grant into his phone and then hung up. He crooked his neck around to check out all the windows of the house and then fiddled with the radio for a while.

From the sound of the conversation, it appeared that Spieldburt had asked Grant to see if I was receiving visits from Gertie. Maybe he thought I had fallen for her during the investigation, kind of like how Dennis had fallen for Ignacio.

I gave Grant an hour and then peeked out the window again. He was making that occasional quick head jerk that signaled oncoming sleep.

I took the vial of tar to the kitchen and stuck it in the microwave for a few minutes until it got really viscous. I wrapped it up in a towel so that I wouldn't burn myself and took it and the stuffed sloth out the back door. I went through several backyards and then cut over to the street a block behind Grant's car. Crouching behind a four-by-four, I whipped out the binoculars and focused in on him. He was in a slouch and not moving at all. I mapped out the path I would take up to him and then zigzagged forward, stopping behind the parked cars to verify he was still sleeping.

The driver's side window was rolled down all the way. Grant's head was tilted at what looked like an uncomfortable angle, and a line of drool was making its way down to a growing wet spot on his shirt. I was about to carry out my evil plan when the sun reflecting off his complicated phone caught my eye. It was underneath the car stereo in a little compartment. I reached in as far as I could, but with my short arms I didn't make it much farther than the other side of the steering wheel. I watched him for a few seconds and decided to try it again, but this time I took out the shit phone, held it in my hand, and then leaned into the window head first. I moved slower than a sloth so that I wouldn't make the slightest noise. I even held my breath until I thought I was going to pass out. With half my body in the window, I slid the shit phone into the compartment and took out Grant's super-complex device. I gave a little goodbye wave to Grant with it as I slowly pulled myself out of his window.

I moved over to the front of his car and took out the vial of tar. It wasn't made to be opened, so I really had to claw at it, but when the top came off, I poured it out right onto the middle of the hood. Then I took the stuffed sloth and planted him in the tar facing Grant. The growling expression it had was going to be perfect for Grant to wake up to.

I doubled back, and when I was in the house again, I checked out the scene from Dennis' bedroom window.

Grant was sound asleep. I expected him to wake up soon, but he kept sleeping away. A mother and her son walked by, and the kid went wild trying to drag his mom over to the sloth, but even that didn't wake him up. I was just dying for him to see his surprise, and the longer he slept, the more it ate me up. I finally cracked, took out my new phone and dialed up Grant's shit phone. I saw his head leap up. Then, as he tried to remember where he was, he wiped off a bunch of drool with the back of his hand and then looked at it as if he had been betrayed by his own body. Then he focused in on the ringing. He tilted his head slightly, like a dog that hears a high-pitched noise, and reached over to pick it up. With a look of disgust he saw that his phone had morphed into the inbred cousin of its former self and that the incoming call was from "Grant." After a couple of very vulgar words and a punch to the steering wheel, he answered.

"You bring my fucking phone back here right now you—" he said and then launched into a high-pitched, girly scream when he noticed the sloth. I waited for him to calm down a little.

"Don't worry, it'll take him a good hour to walk around to the side of the car to attack you," I said.

"Is that tar on my car?"

"He must have had it all over his feet when he climbed onto your hood. You didn't happen to be at La Brea earlier, did you? I hear that happens from time to time."

"If you don't give me back my phone, I'm going to call everyone in your repertory and tell them you have a venereal disease."

"My ex is the only one in that phone, and she dumped me, so have at it," I said and hung up.

Grant got out and grabbed the sloth with one hand. It was stuck on there good, so he put his free hand down on the hood for support. He started pulling again, but then let go of the sloth, grabbed the arm that was touching the hood and pulled it out of the tar he had accidentally ended up in. His left palm was speckled with black. He walked over to the lawn and tried to wipe it off, but ended up with blades of grass stuck to his hand. After a new round of swearing, he walked back over to the slothmobile, got in, and, holding his left hand up to avoid spreading any tar, drove off, his car veering off to the right every time he let go of the wheel to shift.

38

I went downstairs, sat down with my dad and tried to figure out how to use my new, complicated phone. It had a miniature keyboard and a touch screen, and occasionally, when I said something to my dad, it would light up and start calling people. I had to be careful what I said while this thing was turned on. After about thirty minutes of fiddling with it, I found the repertory and started going through it. There were hundreds of names listed, and every one of them had several pages of notes. There were birthdays, addresses and telephone numbers, but also personal notes like "hates the Angels," "sleeping with Juanita from art design," and "loosens up after a margarita—must be on the rocks with salt." I found my name, and along with my number it said "possible blackmailer or stalker." The biggest annoyance was that I couldn't find Spieldburt's number anywhere. Maybe Grant had hidden it under another name in case he ever lost his phone, but there was no way I was going to call every person listed in order to check.

I was having trouble digesting the fact that I was once again going to have to call Grant to get in contact with his boss. I knew Grant would have to talk to me, since in the end he had to do what his boss wanted, but he could make life difficult and say crap that I wouldn't be able to forget any time soon. What a drag.

I was so annoyed at my practical joke having backfired that, for the first time in months, I really felt like having a beer to calm down. I hadn't stocked Dennis' fridge since I knew my dad wouldn't cook anyway, but I was hoping Dennis had left a Budweiser or two. I walked over to the kitchen and was about to open the fridge when the home phone rang. I walked quickly back to the living room and answered it.

"Hello," I said.

"Hi Lonnie," said a very depressed Dennis. "How are things at mi casa?" Things were actually getting a little disgusting because I hadn't straightened up in a while. It also looked like my dad had been putting his food down on the couch while he made his chess moves.

"Everything's great here. I'm really—" I said, and then I stood dead still because all of a sudden it felt like I was standing on Jell-O. I heard the picture frames rattle softly against the walls and the frame of the house creak slightly. Even though the quake only lasted a few seconds, I was so zoned in on it, waiting to see if it was going to get stronger or fade into nothing, that it felt like time had stopped for an instant.

"Lonnie? Lonnie?" said Dennis.

"A quake just hit. It felt like a four."

"You're making me homesick. I swear, a big truck passes in the street below my apartment here, and for a minute I think I'm back home. Funny, the things you miss."

"Don't worry. Everything will still be shaking when you get back."

"That's what I called about. I'm not sure how much longer I'm going to stay here."

"What? Why?"

"I came here to get away from it all and relax, but also to have a good week every month with Ignacio, you know—to finally be with him without worrying about him having to run back to his wife every night."

"So now that you're not sneaking around it's not exciting anymore?" I asked.

"He hasn't spent the night here once since I arrived! He keeps telling me there's a big business deal going down in Barcelona, so the little time he's actually been in Spain he spends there. He's only come out here a few times to spend the day."

"Hey, he's still putting you up in paradise, right?" I asked, hoping to make him see the positive so he wouldn't come back any time soon.

"That's what he keeps telling me, but I've got a bad feeling. He seems on edge all the time. Last time he was here, we were holding hands talking, and it was like he was somewhere else. He went all quiet and started squeezing my hand so hard. He says he was thinking about work, but I've never seen him like that before."

"I'm sure it's nothing. The guy brought you out to the most amazing place, away from all the troubles of the world. Cut him some slack. He's got to pay for all that somehow," I said, but it sounded like something I'd say to cover for a buddy who was getting with the extramarital doing.

"Thanks Lonnie. I'm sure you're right. But...maybe you could just look into one thing for me. I'll add a little extra to your next check for it. Could you check out an address?"

"Sure, but what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Ignacio has an apartment over in West Hollywood. His former boyfriend—the one he broke up with to be with me—used to live there. I want you to see if the place is empty or not. If you see anyone there, tell me what he looks like. I'll call you again in a few days. Will that be enough time?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. "What's the address?"

Dennis rattled off an address that I already knew—the one that had been on Ballsack's old tag. I repeated it back to him as if I were making sure I had written it down correctly. I could have told him that he had nothing to worry about, that a little girl lived there now with her dad, but then I wouldn't have gotten any more money.

"Okay," I said. "I'll take care of that." I hung up the phone like the characters in my screenplay do and began picking up some trash in the living room. I didn't feel the need to have a beer anymore because the idea of getting more money had calmed me down. I was glad about that. Then the phone rang again.

"Hello," I said.

"We got cut off," said Dennis.

"Oh." Apparently Dennis hadn't thought the conversation was over. It was harder than I had imagined to come to a tacit, mutual agreement on the subject. "So, uh...anything else?"

"No, that's it."

"Okay. Bye?"

"Talk to you later," he said, but didn't hang up. I wanted to make sure it was really over this time so he wouldn't call back again.

"Bye?" I asked.

"Do you need to say something else? It sounds like you're not sure you want to hang up."

"No, that's it. Okay. Goodbye," I said as monotone as possible.

"Goodbye," he said and hung up. I started to say goodbye one more time into the phone, stopped myself and hung up.
Part 3

1

Spieldburt had refused to deal with me again, and that meant I had to stop stalling. If he wanted to know the hard truth before giving me a dime, then fine, I'd give it to him. I was tempted just to take some photos of Gertie with Tommy, but I didn't know exactly how much Grant knew about the situation. If I stopped giving my reports to Spieldburt via the screenplay and his entourage found out about his personal life, he might get angry and use it as a pretext not to pay me. So after a few more days of working with Gertie, I sat down with my screenwriting buddies, got wicked caffed up, and scribbled out the very last installment, the one that was going to answer all the questions.

SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER

Act 3

By Lonnie Herisson

INT. LONNIE'S BEDROOM - MORNING

LONNIE, fully clothed, is sleeping on his bed. His light snoring is interrupted by a series of deep snores that wake him up.

LONNIE HERISSON

(Disoriented)

What? Oh no! I fell asleep waiting to see if Gertie was going to do my roommate! Maybe she's still here.

LONNIE grabs the weird gun, sneakily opens his bedroom door and takes a peek. The coast is clear.

INT. LONNIE'S LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

LONNIE tiptoes over to TOMMY's door. He slowly turns the knob and pushes the door open. TOMMY is in bed alone. LONNIE shuts the door and steps away.

LONNIE

Damn! If she did him and I missed it, the Dweller could already be in my house! I'll have to be careful.

INT. LONNIE'S LIVING ROOM - LATER

It is later in the morning. LONNIE sits on the couch, tapping his foot. He is staring at his new phone.

LONNIE HERISSON

Why isn't she calling me? It's time to go to work.

LONNIE looks at the clock and then again at the phone. An expression of "duh" comes over his face.

LONNIE HERISSON

I forgot to give Gertie my new number!

LONNIE grabs a box of spy supplies and runs out the front door.

INT. GERTIE'S OFFICE - LATER

ELLEN sits at the desk doing her nails. LONNIE enters the office hurriedly.

LONNIE HERISSON

Ellen! Where's Gertie? I forgot to give her my new number.

ELLEN

She said she was going over to the Powell's to close the deal.

LONNIE HERISSON

What deal? Brandi doesn't want to sell the house.

ELLEN

Gertie can be very persuasive with young wives. I've seen it happen many times already. But don't worry. I don't think she needs you on this one.

LONNIE HERISSON

But I'm supposed to be learning here...I gotta run. Maybe I can catch her.

LONNIE streaks out of the office.

EXT. SWANKY BEVERLY HILLS HOUSE ON COMSTOCK AVENUE - LATER

LONNIE parks the Charger far away from the house and, with binoculars and parabolic microphone in hand, sneaks up to the yard. Gertie's yellow Eldorado is in the driveway. Female voices are heard coming from the backyard. LONNIE sneaks around back, hides behind the fence, and spies on BRANDI POWELL and GERTIE, who are holding margaritas.

BRANDI POWELL

Are you sure you want to drink so early in the day?

GERTIE ELLIOT

I think you're going to need it, cutie. Cheers.

GERTIE and BRANDI clink glasses and take a sip.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

There's no easy way to say this, but I'm going to try to be as sensitive as I can. Your husband fucked me like a dirty Thai whore. On your mattress. He licked me places that just aren't right.

BRANDI's expression conveys despair.

BRANDI POWELL

(Eyes tearing)

Are you...in love? Is he going to leave me? Oh god, no. I signed a prenup!

GERTIE ELLIOT

No, honey. We don't love each other. His heart will always belong to you. He just gave me everything else, many times, in some very disturbing ways. Please don't hate me for this. I was powerless to stop his advances.

BRANDI breaks down and starts crying. GERTIE comforts her and takes her in her arms.

BRANDI POWELL

Oh God! Why couldn't I be enough for him? It's bad enough that all my friends make fun of me for marrying an old man. Now they'll think I couldn't even satisfy him!

GERTIE ELLIOT

It's not a question of being enough for someone. Don't feel bad, Brandi.

BRANDI POWELL

Well what is it a question of? Why did he do this? You're...so old!

GERTIE ELLIOT

Let me try to help you understand. You know how men always want to sleep with foreign women? It's because they find them exotic and new. Well, an old man goes after young tail like you for a number of obvious reasons. Those who succeed are thrilled, and usually rich. But after the years go by, all the old women have become foreign to them. They forget what it was like to be with us, so they start dreaming about cheating on their young, perky, talkative wives with old, saggy and silent.

BRANDI begins to cry again.

BRANDI POWELL

(Choking out her words)

But what do I do now?

GERTIE ELLIOT

Pretty much what you were doing before—wait for him to croak. You leave now, you get nothing, and that would be the real tragedy here.

BRANDI POWELL

I guess I will be able to live with this after some time has gone by. I do have the best house in the world. I'll have to move our bedroom to a different room, of course, but as time—

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Interrupting)

That won't work. There's not a room in this place I haven't defiled. And anyway, you're thinking too small. You're the victim in this. You need to make him pay. You sell this place as fast as possible and get an even bigger house—one that all your friends will see as an appropriate apology. What are you going to do, continue to live here and have your friends think you have no control over Jefferson?

A spark of relief appears on BRANDI's face.

BRANDI POWELL

You're right. If I don't get a bigger house, I'll be a joke. Everyone will treat me like a pathetic little girl.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Now that's the spirit!

GERTIE hugs BRANDI. GERTIE's hand comes to rest on BRANDI's very large left breast.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

I'll take you out to some amazing houses in Malibu this week. Don't let Jefferson talk you into going with another realtor. He knows I have the most expensive listings.

GERTIE notices that her hand is on BRANDI's breast. She pulls it away quickly.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

Oh! Sorry about that. I thought I was touching your arm.

BRANDI POWELL

What?

GERTIE ELLIOT

My hand was on your breast, on accident.

BRANDI POWELL

After the fourth enlargement I lost all feeling. It works out better for the most part, except sometimes, when I'm blindfolded, I don't start moaning at the right times.

GERTIE ELLIOT

You're a special woman, Brandi. Don't forget that.

GERTIE and BRANDI stand up and hug. They turn and start walking toward the house. LONNIE runs back to the Charger and gets in. GERTIE comes out the front door, makes the "call me" sign to BRANDI, and takes off in the Eldorado. LONNIE follows.

INT./EXT. WILSHIRE BOULEVARD - MOMENTS LATER

LONNIE is driving behind GERTIE. He takes out his phone and dials her number. She answers.

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Professional voice)

This is Gertie Elliot, the west side's top agent. How may I help you?

LONNIE HERISSON

Hey Gertie, it's me—Lonnie.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Why does your phone say Grant?

LONNIE HERISSON

Long story. I'll get it changed soon. Hey, I'm right behind you. Sorry I'm late.

GERTIE turns around to look behind her. Her car swerves into oncoming traffic. After several near misses and a barrage of honking, she darts back into the correct lane.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Scared the hell out of me there. Jesus, I need a smoke.

GERTIE holds the cell phone between her shoulder and ear, steers with her knees, takes out a cigarette and lights it.

LONNIE HERISSON

So what's on the agenda now?

GERTIE ELLIOT

I have to go have a talk with Jefferson Powell. I've got good news: we're going to get to sell his house after all.

LONNIE HERISSON

Great! Do you need me to come with you?

GERTIE ELLIOT

No, I'll handle this on my own. There's nothing for you to do yet. Hey, why don't you go see if Tommy is in the mood to celebrate with us tonight? We'll let him buy us dinner.

LONNIE HERISSON

Okay. See you later.

LONNIE and GERTIE hang up.

INT. PINK TACO RESTAURANT IN CENTURY CITY - NIGHT

LONNIE, TOMMY and GERTIE are finishing their meals. A waitress comes by and picks up a slew of empty margarita glasses.

GERTIE ELLIOT

(Clearly drunk)

Oh man, those margaritas were amazing. Tommy, someday when I feel like being the designated driver, you'll have to try one of these. Hopefully before you go back to wherever you're from.

TOMMY smiles and puts his hand on hers.

TOMMY

I already feel sufficiently intoxicated being around such a beautiful woman.

LONNIE, who has not consumed alcohol in a long, long time, is not looking too good.

LONNIE HERISSON

That was delicious. I always thought from the name that this place was a strip club.

GERTIE looks around and catches the attention of the waiter.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Waiter! One more round for me and my plump amigo here.

LONNIE HERISSON

Oh God. I'm going to end up passing out and forgetting the whole evening.

GERTIE looks at LONNIE and TOMMY and laughs suggestively.

INT. LONNIE'S LIVING ROOM - LATER

LONNIE, GERTIE and TOMMY enter the house. GERTIE is being propped up by TOMMY. Her arm is around his shoulder. LONNIE staggers over to the kitchen, grabs a glass of water and some Alkaseltzer, and sits down on the couch to drink it.

GERTIE ELLIOT

(To Lonnie)

I'm bunking up with this guy tonight. That is, unless you have something to add to the subject.

LONNIE gives a look of surprise to TOMMY. TOMMY seems not to have understood drunken GERTIE.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

(To Lonnie)

Give me ten minutes to warm this guy up...

GERTIE closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they are now reptilian and glowing. Tommy doesn't notice them.

GERTIE ELLIOT (CONT'D)

(To Lonnie)

...then come right in and join us. Let's go Tommy!

GERTIE and TOMMY head off to TOMMY's room. LONNIE downs the rest of his Alkaseltzer.

LONNIE HERISSON

(To himself)

I have to end all of this tonight!

LONNIE stands up. The room spins around him due to his drunkenness. He starts walking toward his bedroom door, veers off to the side, puts himself back on course, and then enters his room.

INT. LONNIE'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

LONNIE takes the weird gun from under the bed. He adjusts a few dials and makes sure the jar is tightly attached.

INT. LONNIE'S LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

LONNIE, finger on the trigger of the weird gun, creeps through the living room like some kind of ninja. He listens at the door.

GERTIE ELLIOT (OFF SCREEN)

Ha! No matter how many times you roll back that turtleneck, it's always a surprise.

LONNIE slowly turns the door handle. Moans of passion grow louder and louder. LONNIE throws open the door, hits the lights, and is confronted by a horrible scene. TOMMY is on his back, being ridden by a drunken GERTIE, who waves one hand in the air like a bull rider. Various parts of her turn in seemingly conflicting directions as she bounces up and down.

LONNIE is not sure where to stick the gun. He approaches the couple.

GERTIE ELLIOT

Oh good, you're here. Come over and show me what you've got, and I'll decide where I want it.

LONNIE approaches the bed. TOMMY's eyes begin to morph into the glowing, reptilian form that is the sign of the SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER. It has already been transmitted from GERTIE to TOMMY! In one deft motion, LONNIE brings the gun down into TOMMY's navel and pulls the trigger. A series of flashes goes off, followed by an unearthly hissing as the DWELLER gets sucked into the gun's nozzle, slides through the tubing and, with a pop, ends up in the glass jar. Its slimy, blue body convulses. Its claws scrape wildly against the interior walls. LONNIE runs out of the room.

INT. LONNIE'S KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

LONNIE removes the jar from the gun, careful to screw the lid on tightly before the DWELLER is able to jump out. LONNIE holds the jar up and looks into the DWELLER's horrible eyes. In disgust, he walks over to the microwave, opens it, and places the jar inside. A wide-eyed look of horror comes over the DWELLER's middle-butterfly-part features. His snout comes completely unrolled and his eyes widen. Suddenly, LONNIE is overtaken by a strange feeling. There is a stabbing pain in his brain. He bends over and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he is able to see through the DWELLER's eyes and feel his emotions. This phenomenon is completely unexplained in the film, and moviegoers must accept it, not unlike the way they had to accept the cheaply comedic psychic link between Elliot and E.T. Tricked into feeling sympathy for it, LONNIE removes the DWELLER from the microwave and takes it back to his room.

INT. LONNIE'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

LONNIE places the jar underneath his bed.

LONNIE HERISSON

I can't bring myself to kill you, Dweller, but I'm going to make sure you never infect anyone again.

LONNIE pulls down the sheets, hiding the jar.

INT. THE SUPPLEMENTARY TERRIAN DWELLER'S JAR - MOMENTS LATER

The DWELLER waits for the lights to go out. In the darkness, a soft blue glowing emanates from the DWELLER's skin. He begins rocking back and forth until he is able to knock the jar over. Like a hamster in a wheel, the DWELLER runs and makes the jar move forward, causing it to knock against the leg of the bed. The jar remains intact. The DWELLER looks discouraged, but then makes out a dumbbell a few feet away. He turns the jar around, gets a lot of momentum, and then...

CUT TO BLACK. A shattering of glass is heard, followed by hysterical DWELLER laughter.

Then, to make sure the audience knows they have just wasted a lot of money on a movie that will definitely have a meaningless sequel, the screen reads "Your end is always the beginning for the Supplementary Terrian Dweller!"

FADE OUT

2

The writing was done, which meant that my work pretending to be Dennis was almost done also. I sat back and admired my little pile of half-crumpled pages and listened to the soft tapping of my buddies' typing. I was going to miss coming to Culver City. Who knew, maybe I'd start another project someday, a real screenplay, so that I'd have an excuse to come back.

I called Grant's shit phone to tell him I was ready.

"Oh look, I'm calling myself again," he said.

"Grant old buddy. You can tell your boss I've got the final act, with evidence."

"I'll come get it along with my phone."

"Oh no you won't. I'm hand delivering this one to your boss, and I expect to get paid once he's looked it over, so tell him to bring the money we agreed on."

"I'll let him know. Where do you want to meet him?"

"You know the big plant-dinosaur fountains on the Promenade? Tell him to meet me at the one on the north end at noon tomorrow."

"You want one of the most famous men in the world to go to a crowded place like that?"

"Yeah, that way he won't get any smart ideas."

"Okay...but one minute. I missed a friend's birthday because I don't have my phone anymore. At least let me get a copy of the repertory. It's bad enough I have a sloth on the hood of my car. And hey, I did you a favor. I called your ex and told her about the STD and—"

"What! You dick!" I yelled and hung up on him. I drew back my arm to throw his phone down on the pavement, but luckily the guys stopped me.

"Don't do it. You'll just end up buying another one," said Scarf-Guy Al.

"Yeah, you're right," I said, putting the phone down on the table and then taking deep breaths to calm down.

"Whatever it is, get your revenge on paper. It pays better, and you don't end up getting arrested," said Hat-Guy Leonard.

"I learned that lesson the hard way," said Pee-Smelling, Old-Birkenstock Jerry. Several of the guys nodded quietly to themselves.

I imagined a sequel to my work, in which Grant would come knocking on my door after midnight just as the Dweller was escaping his glass prison. As we are talking at the door, the Dweller sneaks behind us to the toilet and waits. Having completely reconciled our differences, I feel comfortable enough with Grant to let him into my house and offer him a drink. At some point he uses the bathroom. Now in complete control of Grant, the Dweller decides to terrorize all of New England by doing what Grant does best, which apparently involves typing unimportant details into an organizer and kissing ass. But how would this Dweller-ized version of Grant differ from any other New Englander? This writing stuff could be tricky after all.

I said my goodbyes to the writers and told them I wouldn't be around for a while, since my big project had come to an end. They wished me luck and told me not to wait too long to start a new one.

3

I had only just returned to Dennis' house when the phone rang. It was Dennis, still sounding as depressed as he had the last time. I wanted to make him feel better, so I launched into the good news.

"Dennis, glad you called. I've got some great news for you."

"Wonderful. I could use some. Ignacio has had to stay longer than he thought in L.A., so here I am still alone."

"I went by that apartment, and there's no way a gay dude lives there. You can be sure that Ignacio's lover moved out like he said. I met the little girl who lives there now and her dad."

"There was a little girl?" he asked with a tone of despair.

"Yeah. Amanda."

There was a long pause. Then I had to take the phone away from my ear because a loud pounding, as if Dennis were slamming the phone down on something, shot out of the receiver, punctuated by obscenities and wailing feedback. After the fifth or sixth explosion, the line went dead.

About an hour later, the phone rang again. I lifted the receiver and out poured the sound of passing cars, dance music and an occasional shout in Mexican. Above all that, I could make out Dennis' voice.

"Um...I think we got cut off," he said.

"You mean after you smashed the phone?"

"Yeah...Lonnie, I need a favor. First, do you have a pen?"

"Oh do I," I said, but when I pulled out the Montblanc I was annoyed that it didn't have the same effect over the phone. Maybe these things should play music as you write with them. He rattled off an address in Beverly Glen.

"Okay. Got it," I said.

"Now, I need you to go downstairs into my office. You'll see some steel shelves, and on the middle shelf there's a manila envelope marked 'Reyes'. I need you to take that envelope to the address I gave you. Make sure it gets in the hands of Mrs. Reyes. If anyone else answers the door, just pretend you've got the wrong address."

"You want me to go over there now?"

"No, it'll be evening before you get there, so she might not be alone. Wait until tomorrow. She doesn't work, so unless she goes out to run an errand, she'll be around. Just make sure you give it to her personally."

"Yeah, no problem."

"One other thing. Would you mind picking me up at the airport on Sunday? My plane arrives in the afternoon. It's the first flight I could get that didn't cost a fortune. Everything leaving before then was four times the price."

"On Sunday? This Sunday?" I asked. I couldn't believe my ears. I hadn't expected him to come back for another couple of months. Now I wasn't going to have time to do anything. To be honest, I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do. I needed more time to find out.

"I'll call you from the plane when it lands. You can drive one of my cars to pick me up if you want...well, take the Honda. Since you're not insured on my cars, I'd prefer you take the one I'd be the least sad to see wrecked."

"All right. See you Sunday," I said with all the enthusiasm of a man buying the coffin he knows he'll eventually be buried in.

4

This was very bad news. It meant I was going to have to find somewhere to put my dad. I definitely didn't want him to end up all stinky back in Venice, and anyway, I didn't think he'd go back now that he'd gotten used to the good life. The only solution I could think of was to let him move into my house, but it would be pretty crowded over there. Also, once Dennis got back and I stopped getting that second check, keeping my dad stocked up was going to be a lot harder. Of course I'd have the five grand from Spieldburt and the last check from Dennis, but how long would that last? I hadn't thought about any of this in the beginning.

My dad was on the couch clicking away at the computer. His hair was getting all crazy again and his beard was getting thick, but I knew he had been showering on his own because I'd occasionally see soap on him that he'd forgotten to rinse off.

Most of his clothes were on the love seat all folded up. Tommy didn't realize that I had been slipping my dad's dirty clothes in with mine, so he had been doing laundry for both of us. I picked up the piles and loaded them into the trunk of the Charger. Then I took a trash bag and picked up all the dirty clothes scattered around the living room and the bathroom. While I was doing all this, my dad would glance up nervously. I knew he had gotten used to the place, and whenever he had to change it made him uneasy.

All the rest of the cleaning would have to wait until my dad was out of there. I needed to wipe the leather couch off with a spot remover, run the vacuum everywhere, and get a carpet cleaner to take care of the ring of chocolate stains around the coffee table where my dad had been sculpting.

I sat down next to him and watched the rest of his game. He must have been more nervous than I had thought because he kept losing piece after piece but played on anyway. When he finished, he tried to start up another game, but I stopped him by closing the laptop.

"Look Dad, I've got a problem." He was staring at the closed laptop. "My buddy, the guy who lives here, is coming back on Sunday, so we have to get out of here."

"I can't play chess on the computer anymore?"

"Of course you can. You can keep the computer. It's all yours."

"But someone will steal it from me."

"No they won't, because you're going to come live with me. You remember that guy I introduced you to the other day? He lives there, too. It'll be like a frat house or something."

"I don't know that guy. He looks weird."

"Yeah, I know, but he's all heart inside. Anyway, he's a student so I don't know how long he'll be staying with me. When he leaves it'll just be you and me."

He sat still for a long time without saying anything. I couldn't tell if that was good or bad.

"I got your stuff loaded up in the car. I'm going to unplug the computer now, but we'll take it with us. I thought we could stop off and get you a haircut and a shave before we go get settled in. What do you say?"

He still didn't answer, but he got up and walked outside. I packed up the last of the stuff and joined him.

He was still nervous when we arrived at the barber shop. Sometimes he breathed heavy like he needed more oxygen. At first I thought it was because I had asked the barber to cut his hair even shorter than before so that it would look good even if he didn't comb it, but when I asked him if he was okay with the cut he said yes.

We stopped at the Giant Angry Panda to get some takeout. I figured if he had something good to eat on his first night at my place he'd adapt better, but I was wrong. He barely ate anything. He just sat on the couch staring down at the floor. I even hooked up the internet chess again, but he didn't show any interest. I was out of ideas.

Later in the evening, Gertie and Tommy walked in. Both of them gave me weird looks and waited for me to speak.

"Hi guys," I said. "Tommy, you remember my dad. Dad, this is Gertie, my boss." My dad didn't look over, but Gertie didn't even notice. She was just standing there staring at me with a puzzled look on her face. I waited for her to say something, but she didn't move.

"Something wrong, Gertie?"

"Oh, so that's the way we're going to play this, eh? Just let it go and don't say a word about it, right?"

"I can bring my dad over here if I want. It's my house," I said.

"No, no, pal. You know that's not what I'm talking about. I want to know why the hell you came in on us last night while we were doing it and took pictures. I'm not sure I even want to know why you grabbed Tommy's navel lint, put it in a jar and yelled 'the dweller is blue, it's always blue!'"

"We were pretty drunk last night, Gertie. You might not remember this, but you asked me to come in and join you."

Tommy was looking increasingly hostile, his lips quivering all the things he would have said if only he could have strung them together properly.

"You son of a war!" he finally said.

"Hold on Tommy. I probably did ask him to do that. You have to keep an eye on The Gert when she's lit up. The animal in me gets released. But you...," she said, looking over at me again, "you had an invitation to paradise, and you passed it up. That makes you suspicious."

"Um...I knew Tommy would be upset if I took you up on it, but I was overpowered by the idea of your nakedness," I said, digging down deep for a big lie. "So I took the pictures so I could, you know, go get with the auto-doing."

"That is repulsive!" she said. "You men make me sick with your lusting after me."

"I'm truly sorry, Gertie."

"Let's forget about the whole thing. But can you give me copies of those photos? I'd ask for the originals, but I know you'll do anything to keep a copy somewhere."

"Yeah, sure. I'll give them to Tommy later."

"All right. Let's go to bed, Tommy."

"Son of a war!" he said one more time.

"Jesus, Tommy. How many times do I have to tell you? You don't pronounce the 'w', only the 'h'," said Gertie as they entered Tommy's room. "Now come give your little 'war' a kiss." They shut the door, muffling their animal noises and giggles.

The exchange had made my dad even more uncomfortable. I could see that this wasn't going to work out yet, so I decided to try again tomorrow.

"Look, my friend isn't getting back until Sunday, so why don't I take you back over and let you sleep there for a couple more days. Just remember, you've got to come back here soon, so start trying to get used to the idea," I said, but before I could even finish, my dad had stood up and walked to the door. I grabbed a change of clothes for him, packed up the computer, and took him back over to Dennis'. After he was feeling comfortable again and ready to sleep, I went home with the big poodle and hit the frog barking.

5

The next morning I brought my dad to my place for the day so that he could get used to it. I told him he'd be sleeping at Dennis', so he seemed a lot more relaxed than the day before and even started playing chess on my couch. That would give me enough time to rent a carpet cleaner and straighten up before I had to meet Spieldburt at the plant-dinosaur fountain.

I swung by the grocery store and rented a carpet cleaner. I hauled it into Dennis' living room and went to work. By around eleven I had everything looking good, so I put the machine in the trunk of the Charger and went back inside to grab the envelope for Mrs. Reyes. I figured I'd have time to return the machine, give the screenplay and photos to Spieldburt, and then drive up to Beverly Glen to find Mrs. Reyes before the end of the afternoon.

I tucked the manila envelope under my arm and walked out of the house. After exiting the courtyard, I turned around to lock the gate. While I was digging in my pocket for the keys, I heard quick footsteps coming in my direction. I turned around and saw an outstretched hand reaching for my envelope. I locked my arm down tightly over it and spun around, but the envelope was on the verge of sliding out from under my arm. I dropped the keys and grabbed the envelope with my free hand. I felt a couple of strong kicks in the rear.

"Let go of it you bastard!" said a voice I had heard only a few times but recognized instantly: it was Spieldburt. With both hands on the envelope, he started pulling it from side to side. With each tug he gave, I was losing my grip on it. I needed both hands to get it under control, so I raised the arm that the envelope was tucked under, hoping to flip around and add my free hand to the tug of war. As soon as I took my arm off the envelope, it shot out of my grip.

Spieldburt took off running but got his foot caught on a tree root that had grown up from under the sidewalk and went sprawling down on the grass. He immediately started pushing himself up with his hands, so I jumped on him like a luchador, wrapping my arms around his legs. He hit the ground again and started thrashing to break free of me, but I was clamped on like a pit bull. He picked up the envelope, tossed it a few feet forward, and then managed to twist around so that he could see me. He reared back and clocked me on the top of the head with his fist and then grimaced in pain.

"Ah! I think you broke my hand! Let go of me!" he yelled, flopping around like a fish in a canoe. But still I held on.

Then he reached down with both hands to cover my mouth and pinch my nose. I wasted a good twenty seconds of airlessness having no idea what to do. The best thing I could think of was to try to bite his hand, but I only ended up licking his salty palm. Then I started seeing lots of quick-moving paisleys everywhere, and things began to go blurry and dark. I had to let go of him and knock his hands off me or else I would have passed out.

He sprang up to his feet. I gasped in the thick L.A. air and tried to prop myself up. Everything was swimming around me. I saw Spieldburt bend over to pick up the envelope and the pair of sunglasses that had fallen off his face during the tussle. I leaped forward, snatching the envelope out of his hand, but I landed on my side in the grass right next to him.

Then the Sharkburt in him came out. He gave me several kicks to the stomach. I'd always thought this would hurt terribly, and for the most part, I had been right. But the most annoying thing about getting kicked in the stomach is that you can't breathe. The pain actually goes a little numb after the first few kicks.

I rolled over on top of the envelope. Spieldburt tried to push me off of it, and even though I had started thinking of myself as a thinner guy, I was apparently still too fat to be moved by an enraged movie director.

My face was straight down in the grass, so I couldn't see much. He stopped pushing me, but I didn't want to look up for fear that he'd go after my nose and mouth again. Then I felt him grab my feet and tug. This also was unsuccessful. My god, how fat had I been before I stopped drinking so much? He let me go and my legs flopped in the grass. Then there was a pause. I was afraid to look up, but I was so freaked out by the calm that I had to know what he was preparing to do. I crooked my neck around but didn't see him anywhere. Then I heard the jingling of keys behind me. I sat up, pressing the envelope tightly against my chest. I turned around to see that Spieldburt had picked up my keys from in front of the door. He hit the unlock button on the Mercedes' key fob, causing the car lights to flash. I didn't like where this was going. He had a sinister look in his eyes as he circled around me and headed toward the car.

I had trouble catching my breath, so it took me a while to get to my feet. By the time I had staggered over to the driveway, Spieldburt was in the Mercedes and had already started the motor. I saw the car move slightly when he put it in gear.

"What are you going to do, steal my car?"

"No. I'm going to ram this car into your other cars, and then I'm going to get out, go into your house and break some shit. All you wanted was a miserable five grand for what you've got in that envelope. I'm going to make you lose a hell of a lot more if you don't give it to me now for nothing. I've reached my limit with people like you. I refuse to give you a single dollar!"

"But you asked for it!"

"It's all in the past, and that's where it's going to stay. Now toss it over!"

I could tell by the psychotic look in his eyes that he really was willing to do what he had said. It made no sense to me. Last time I saw him, he laughed at my fee like it was nothing. Now, he was willing to destroy property to get my third act. One thing was sure: I wasn't going to give it to him until I found out why.

"Fine. You win. Take it. Just leave me alone," I said, holding out the envelope.

"Wise choice," he said. He took a set of keys out of his pocket and hit the unlock button on the fob. The lights of a BMW parked across the street flashed. "Put the envelope in the front seat. No funny business, or the demolition derby begins."

I backed away slowly and then turned and walked over to the BMW. I opened the driver's side door and tossed in the manila envelope that I was supposed to give to Mrs. Reyes. Dennis would just have to replace whatever was inside it and deliver it himself when he got back. A delay of a couple of days couldn't possibly matter that much.

I walked back over to the driveway. Spieldburt stepped out of the Mercedes but didn't stop the engine. He reached into the car, shifted it into neutral, and then gave a little push on the door frame. The car started rolling down the driveway. He took off toward his BMW. I ran over behind the car and tried to stop it, but my feet just slid backwards on the pavement. I stepped to the side, jumped in the car and put my foot on the brake. A loud honk went off behind me, and the culprit, a teenager in a car he couldn't possibly have paid for himself, flipped me off as he changed lanes to avoid smashing into me.

6

Spieldburt was gone. He didn't have what he had come for, but now I was thinking that it didn't really matter. It was clear that he had lost his mind, so there was no way I was going to get the money he owed me anyway. All I wanted to do at this point was finish straightening up the house and get out of there before Spieldburt realized he had the wrong envelope and came back. I felt a little guilty that I'd be leaving a nasty situation for Dennis, but to each his own shit, as they say.

I was tired and aching all over. Now that the adrenaline was fading away, I could feel every kick, every knock, and every strained muscle. And all of a sudden I was thirstier than I had ever been.

Wine came to mind, but not because that was what I wanted to drink. When I thought of it, there was this second odor that surged forward in my memory, one that reminded me of having a plastic bottle in my hand. Gatorade—that was what I needed. My body was hinting that it wanted me to replace all the nutrients that I'd had beaten out of me.

I went inside the house to the kitchen. I was about to open the fridge to see if Dennis had left any Gatorade when I saw that another pane of glass had been smashed out of the kitchen door, which was now standing ajar. I couldn't remember when I had been in the kitchen the last time. Had someone broken in yesterday when we were back at my place? If so, they must have been polite burglars, because nothing looked messed up. Did it happen this morning after I took my dad back to my place? Or during my fight with Spieldburt?

I was going to have to check all the rooms to see if anything had been stolen, but first I definitely needed something cold to drink. I opened the fridge. What I saw caused me to travel back through my memories and replace the flawed ones I had formed based on an incomprehensible act of drunken self-deception with real ones, in which my actions now seemed almost schizophrenic. There, on the shelves of Dennis' fridge, were my dad's chocolate sculptures. He had put them in from the top to the bottom shelf in the order he had sculpted them. There were three of them per shelf, three shelves in all. They were all of the same man. Starting from the most recent ones at the bottom, I saw sculptures of the man peeking into the courtyard, presumably pressing his face against a window, and hiding behind a shrub. On the middle shelf he was opening the gate of the backyard fence, reaching through a broken window pane to unlock the kitchen door, and climbing over the backyard fence. And on the top shelf he was trying to pick the lock of the front door, sitting in his car, and finally, in the very first sculpture my dad had done, he was talking to me in the courtyard.

I had only talked with two people in the courtyard, not counting my dad or Dennis. One was Tommy. The other was Spieldburt, or so I had believed. The man in the sculptures was not Spieldburt, and it certainly wasn't Tommy. The sculptures were of the Talking Man, or, more precisely, the man I had talked to when I had first started taking care of Dennis' house, the man who had called himself Mr. Stevens.

The guy, in fact, looked nothing like Spieldburt. He had a thin nose and sunken cheeks. If my dad had got the proportions right, he was a lot taller than me. Then I noticed a detail that made me remember something: in one of the sculptures, he was wearing pants that looked like long shorts. They went down to right above his calves. I had talked with this man a second time, in Santa Monica. It was the guy who had called the big poodle by his real name. I couldn't believe it. I had been followed this whole time.

I pulled my head out of the fridge and shut the door. As I turned to grab a glass out of the cabinet, I saw the real Talking Man standing at the entrance to the kitchen. I felt like I had taken a lightning bolt to the heart. With my blood racing, I turned and bolted toward the kitchen door, which, because it was still ajar, greeted my head with a sonorous thwack that rang throughout my body as if I had been a church bell and the door a hammer. Everything went black.

7

I don't know how long I was out. When I finally regained consciousness, I found myself lying on the kitchen floor surrounded by broken glass. As soon as I began to lift myself up, the Talking Man appeared next to me.

"Don't move," he said.

"What are you going to do to me if I do, kill me? What do you want anyway?" I asked with much difficulty, my head alternating between throbbing and stabbing.

"You, Lonnie Herisson, have been standing between me and my happiness."

"How's that? I don't even know you."

"No, but you've been preventing me from getting something I need, and that's going to come to an end today."

"I don't know what you want!"

"Right, of course you don't. Two men have been guarding this house twenty-four hours a day for no reason at all," he said. "I know why you were hired so don't play stupid with me."

"You can beat me all you want, but I don't know what you're talking about—wait a minute, I didn't mean that. Don't beat me all you want."

"I'm not the violent one in this situation. I'm a business man, and all I want is to be left alone. Here, let me help you up, but slowly. We should get you to the hospital."

"Oh god no, not there. They'll take every cent I have. Just help me over to the couch." I felt a little better knowing that he was more worried about protecting my health than stomping it out, but I was sure that would change if he didn't get whatever it was he wanted.

He held out a hand and lifted me to my feet, and then stopped me as well as he could from weeble-wobbling all over the place. We made it to the couch, and I lowered myself onto it like a spaceship landing on a strange planet.

"I imagine you're being paid quite well for this, so I won't even try to low-ball you. You give me those pictures, and I'll give you more money than you've seen in years."

"What pictures?"

"Damn it! There's no more reason to lie about anything! I know what you're protecting here, and you know which pictures I want! The pictures of me and my lover!" he yelled, his hands shaking as if he wanted to wrap them around someone's neck. He got them under control and regained his composure. "The pictures you're supposed to give to my wife."

"So, you're Ignacio? Ignacio...Reyes?"

"Yes."

"The pictures aren't here anymore."

"I know they aren't here. I searched everywhere while you were taking your little nap on the kitchen floor. I found and erased the files on his hard drive, but I know he printed hard copies. I imagine once you told Dennis that Raymond was still living in my West-Hollywood apartment, he had you take them someplace safer."

"Actually, he asked me to give them to your wife. I was going to do it this afternoon. But I never said anything about this Raymond guy. I told him I ran into a little girl named Amanda."

"Raymond's daughter," he said. I must have had a confused look on my face, because then he said "from his marriage, when he was still in the closet."

"So you never broke up with this guy? No wonder Dennis is angry. Why'd you go and help him become gay if you never intended to leave the other guy?"

"Ha! I didn't help Dennis do anything. He's been putting me through hell ever since I brought that poodle to the animal shelter. I had to get rid of Manolete because he bit Amanda, but I was worried they would put him down if no one adopted him. Dennis assured me that someone would take him since he was just a puppy. I didn't think anything of giving my personal information to Dennis because he worked at the shelter and seemed nice enough. He said he'd call me if there was a problem."

"Why was Dennis pretending to work at the shelter? Was he investigating something?"

"What do you mean? That was his job. Well, he volunteered. He's never worked a real job as far as I know. He's a trust-fund baby."

"He's not a private investigator? But he's got all that equipment," I said.

"He bought all of that to follow me around. He called to tell me he had adopted Manolete himself, and then he kept calling every couple of days to tell me how he was doing. At first I thought he was just weird, but then I would spot him following me, or I'd see him parked on my street. He realized I was cheating on my wife and started blackmailing me. I thought he wanted money, but what he wanted was to be me. The guy is absolutely nuts. He made me promise to leave Raymond or else he was going to tell my wife everything."

"He told me you guys were together."

"We were, sort of," he said.

"But that's horrible! You were gay-doing a guy you hated?"

"Oh no. I told him he was too fat to have sex with. That kind of backfired because he lost a billion pounds in only three months. I think he went on an all-liquid diet. Then when he got pretty thin, I told him his clothes were so ridiculous that I couldn't take him seriously as a lover. That one worked really well. He started experimenting with new styles, and then he really did look like an ass and he knew it, so he didn't feel confident enough to stand up to me. We were supposed to have sex for the first time in Ibiza, which is why I've stayed away from there. My plan was to get him out of this place and then find all traces of those pictures and destroy them. Now that Dennis is probably on his way back, I've got to act fast. It looks like you've found yourself in the right place at the right time."

"So how much money are we talking about?" I asked, hoping that Spieldburt hadn't already chucked the photos out the window of his car.

"Fifty grand, in cash." Normally, I wouldn't have believed someone was willing to pay so much, but I knew he was going to be screwed if those photos got back to his wife, and from what Dennis had told me, this guy was loaded.

"Double that and we've got a deal," I said. He didn't even flinch.

"Fine. Where are they?"

"They aren't here. I'll go and get them. It might take a while, but you've got nothing to worry about. Dennis doesn't know where they are. He's not getting back until Sunday, just in case you were wondering."

"That will give me enough time to take care of this and to get ready for him. He's going to go nuts once he finds out he's been had," he said with a worried look on his face.

He gave me his phone number and took off.

8

After I was able to stand again I got out of there. I didn't bother cleaning up the broken glass, because once Dennis found out I had made a deal with Ignacio, he wasn't going to give me the last check for the house sitting anyway.

I returned the carpet cleaner but had to have one of the pimply faced bagboys carry it in. It was embarrassing standing there in front of everyone while a kid half my size labored to get the thing out of the trunk. While I was in the store, I picked up a slew of pain killers and ice packs, and then went home to rest up.

Ballsack greeted me at the door. He looked all antsy, like he needed to go outside. If my dad had been in the living room, I'd have made him do it, but he wasn't there. I saw that the door to my bedroom was shut, so I figured he was sleeping. I grabbed the leash and took a walk around the neighborhood, each squirrel running by resulting in stabbing pain for me as the crazy dog tugged to go after it. What really pissed me off was that I knew the dog was dying to go to the bathroom, but he kept walking like he was looking for the ultimate spot to ruin. Some guy could make a fortune if he'd invent a spray that imitated big, angry-dog urine, so that owners could just spray a few squirts on their lawns and have Fido go crazy trying to mark his territory all over again. I found myself trying to think like the big poodle and find spots that would be better than others. I would get all excited when he started sniffing, and then desperately annoyed when whatever doggy criteria he had was too exclusive for the spot I had chosen. Who'd have thought finding a place to take a leak could be such an emotional roller coaster?

When we finally got back, I sat down on the couch with a big glass of water and took a stomach full of pills. Then I strategically arranged the ice packs, the last one going on top of my head.

With the pain finally becoming numb, I was able to think over everything that had happened that day. There was something that didn't make sense to me. If I hadn't ever talked to Spieldburt in the first place, why had he wanted more of my crappy screenplay? The guy had been willing to meet me in public and had almost been ready to pay me money—before he flipped out and kicked my ass. What did he think I knew?

Unfortunately, that meant I now had two reasons to call Grant. I needed those photos back, and I needed to know exactly how much leverage I was going to have to get them. I suppose this also meant I was going to have to part ways with my new phone. Screw it; I hated talking on the phone anyway. I dialed my former number and prepared to grovel.

"I feel like I'm being harassed by myself," said Grant.

"Hi Grant. I've been thinking a lot about what I did, and I have come to see that it was not cool. I understand that a man in your position really needs to read crucial notes stored in your phone, notes such as 'Mr. Jenkins' wife has mismatched implants,' and 'Cindy Turner seems to be scratching herself a lot.' And I've also come to see the ground sloth as a beautiful creature, whose extinction was a tragedy. Why did other animals have to be so fast, oh why?"

"Are you going to call and fuck with me for much longer?" he asked.

"I'm serious this time. I want to give your phone back."

"And pay for my paint job?"

"Come on, that piece of crap you drive is about to hit the junkyard anyway. I'll buy you a couple of tubes of touch-up paint, but that's it."

"Fine, I just want my phone back. I'm in Culver City now. Can I come by and pick it up?"

"I'll text you the address. Be there in twenty minutes." I sent him one of the Oldhags' addresses and added that I'd be waiting outside.

I walked down the street with the big poodle and waited for Grant. He swerved up in the slothmobile, sloth still attached, five minutes early. His face was beaming as he got out of the car. When he stepped over, I held out his phone. He snatched it up and gave me back the shit phone, which looked like it had been cleaned up.

"So what do you really want? I know you didn't give this back to me because your conscience was bothering you," he said.

"I want to ask you a question. After I gave you my first act, you told me you weren't even going to read it, but that Spieldburt ended up asking you to bring it to him. Why was that again?"

"Because of the name of your character, Gertie Elliot. I thought it was a funny coincidence at first. He, on the other hand, took it very seriously. But I've got to admit he's been acting weird lately. This afternoon he stormed into his office, slammed the door, and started yelling and breaking things. I was supposed to show him some new scripts, but he canceled everything for the day."

"He was acting a little weird when I saw him earlier as well," I said.

"He always acts weird when you're concerned. He actually made me type up your first two acts. I was sure you wouldn't mind, so I took the liberty of fixing your spelling and re-arranging some scenes that you clearly wrote out of order. It's actually somewhat readable now. I'm interested in seeing the final act."

I had intended to go off on him for what he had told Helen, but he was being oddly nice and caught me completely off-guard.

"Thanks. And hey—tell your boss I need that envelope back. He'll know what I mean. We'll be in contact, I'm sure," I said.

He got back into the slothmobile and took off. I could tell by the jerky movements of his car that he was already texting away, making up for all that lost time.

9

I now had a lot of questions I wanted answered, and they all seemed to involve Gertie Elliot. Spieldburt had had no reason to read that stuff I'd sent him, but he had done it anyway when he had found out she was in it. Why was this? And then another question I'd never thought of before came to me: Why had Ignacio given me her name in the first place?

I dialed her number, but she didn't pick up. When I got back to the house, I knocked on Tommy's door, but he wasn't there. Gertie's office was closed for the day, so the only place I could try was her house. I took the big poodle, mainly so he wouldn't scratch at my bedroom door and bother my dad, and drove down to Venice.

Several of the lights in Gertie's house were on. I rang the bell. She opened the door wearing a silk nightie that was a real turn-on until you saw the wrinkly parts protruding out. From the way her gaze drifted off to some spot behind me, I could tell she was sloshed.

"Hi Gertie. I don't mean to bother you, but I need to ask you something. Are you busy?"

"I have time. Tommy's getting the bedroom ready. You wouldn't expect it, but he's a serious neat freak. He likes to make the bed before we get into it, even if it's midnight. He even shakes the sheets out the window. Come in," she said and then looked down at the dog. "Good god! How does that thing see? He's like a ball of hair."

"I try to make a part in his afro around the eyes every morning, but by lunch time it closes up again."

She led me into her living room, which was decorated in shades of violet and pink. All of her furniture was upholstered in plush, much of which looked worn away from friction. I sat down on the couch and sank in until the angle formed at the back of my knees was less than ninety degrees.

Gertie picked up a glass of wine and began to stare at me. I had the impression she had already forgotten what I'd said at the door. To prevent another invitation to join Tommy and her, I explained again.

"So Gertie, I came over to ask you about—" I said but was interrupted by Tommy's voice coming from the other room.

"Gairtee! I yam red-ee," said Tommy.

"I'm talking to someone here!" yelled Gertie. "I want you to take a shower anyway, mister. And make sure to soap up that coat-wearing worm of yours!" She looked over at me and said, "You won't believe what I find in that European dong of his. There was a piece of pizza crust in there once. It's like the hose of a vacuum, that thing. For all the shit that gets stuck in there, he must flop it around catching stuff with it like a frog catches flies." She paused and once again forgot why I was there. She struck a seductive pose, figuring since she was half naked it had to be for a related reason.

"As I was saying, I need to know something. I wrote a screenplay about you and sent it to that director—"

"I knew you were obsessed with me," she interrupted. "This is something we're going to have to learn to control because things are getting serious between me and Tommy. At least until he goes back to wherever the hell he's from," she said and then whispered, "we'll do it in the houses. Everything happens in the houses."

"That sounds great," I said, knowing she wouldn't remember anyway, or rather she'd remember what she wanted to remember anyway, no matter what I said. In Gertie's drunken memories I was probably always trying to get at her. "But I gave my screenplay about you to Spieldburt—"

"Who?"

"Spieldburt—the E.T. guy."

"You mean Spielberg," she said.

"Spielberg? He's the E.T. guy?" Gertie nodded, and I wondered how I could have gone so long getting his name wrong. That prick Grant hadn't corrected me once. "Well, yeah. That guy. And there was more or less a misunderstanding. He thought I wanted some money, and then the next thing I knew, I was on the ground getting kicked in the ribs."

Gertie's face lost her normal sheen of lustiness, and she went quiet for a moment. She downed the rest of her wine, went over to her open kitchen and poured herself another glass. She then walked over to one of the drawers of her entertainment center and took out a photo album. She came back and sat down next to me. She put the album on my lap and opened it. The pages were filled with pictures of disco-looking, curly-haired people. All the photos were so old that the colors looked off, like they had been taken on a planet that orbited a blue sun. I turned the pages uninterestedly. I assumed Gertie had forgotten why I had come again. I prepared myself for the eventual jolt of dirty pictures that I imagined lay after every turn of the page. Then I recognized a young Gertie, wearing hip-hugging, bell-bottom jeans and an obnoxiously bright, flower-pattern shirt. Her hair was parted in the middle, feathered back ridiculously, and had obviously been lightened with bleach. She was leaning on a scrawny, curly-headed guy, and her hand was resting on his chest.

"Hey, that's you," I said. "I almost didn't recognize you. Your skin was so dark."

"Non-stop tanning. And it took work back then. We had to do it the old-fashioned way. None of this tanning-booth crap. Back in the day, all the girls went to the beach to tan year round. The men would come after us like sharks. Nowadays men don't know how to hit on girls at the beach because they only go there after they've already met their ladies. It's ridiculous. Back then, you could see all the goods up front. This modern, meeting-people-at-the-bookstore thing was invented by flat-assed college girls. I can't believe men bought it."

"Who's this guy?" I asked, pointing to the curly-haired man.

"That's Spielberg—my Steven. We had been seeing each other for several months when this photo was taken."

"You were a couple?"

"Everybody was seeing everybody back then. I was with all these people," she said, making a sweeping gesture with her hand. "But Steven, now he needed special attention. I only started up with him because he was so unconfident that it was endearing. All these muscle-bound guys at the beach hitting on girls right and left, and then there was Steven, standing way off with his feet in the surf and staring at me. I walked over and had to pounce on him to keep him from running away out of nervousness. He started feeding me what I thought was a line of bullshit. He said he was working in TV and was hoping to do a TV movie soon, and he threw out a whole bunch of names I didn't know. I pretended to be interested in all this, and it made him confident. Then he told me all about his dream project, his big movie idea that he wanted to direct one day," she said and went quiet remembering.

"Did he tell you about alien shit?"

"Oh no. Back then he was into some weird stuff. He said he wanted to make a film about Sigmund Freud and his sidekick, a guy named Missouri Fred, a rugged adventurer who always got the girl. In the movie, Freud and Missouri Fred would travel to exotic places making criminally insane villains good people by psycho-analyzing them and helping them understand that it was okay to want to do their mothers. But the larger objective of the two was to track down the Vagina Dentata and destroy it, thus saving the world from impotence. Occasionally, they'd get death threats from the Vagina Dentata. It would leave cryptic clues about its next victims. Freud and Missouri Fred would travel to ravaged European hamlets, where teary, limp-dicked peasants would give them a hero's welcome and help them prepare for the journey ahead. He called the whole thing 'Dentata'."

"What the hell is a vagina dentata?"

"It's a pussy with sharp teeth. It'll bite your dick right off."

"That's not true...is it?" I asked.

"We have always tried to keep it a secret."

"You don't—"

"You'll never know, unless you come in for a little spelunking," she said.

"So anyway," I continued, "why does Spielberg want to beat me up now?"

"Well, he and I started to get serious back in the day. After a few years, we even began seeing each other exclusively—at least it was exclusive from his side. The Gert was born to run. Everything was going along great, but then I got sick of him spouting off new adventures of Freud and Missouri Fred. I told him if he was going to write something about scary teeth, it needed to be something men would go see, because 'Dentata' was only going to be a perverted chick flick. I said 'why not an octopus or a squid with big teeth? People will understand that you're talking metaphorically about a toothy vagina.' He went away for a few weeks and came back beaming. He had fed the idea to a screenwriter and had an entire movie ready to go, but with a shark."

"So he was happy with you, then."

"No. He acted like I had nothing to do with it. I told him he was acting like a child, and we started fighting. He went away, and I didn't hear from him until about five years later. He called and told me he'd made a film inspired by me, but me in the future."

"Which one was that?"

"E.T. I went to see it as soon as it came out. I was flattered at first because he had taken my name and given it to those kids, and I was thinking about all my good qualities that he had given to those brats: my innocence, my optimism, my honesty. I was so moved by it that I was ready to reconcile with Steven. I drove to his house and rushed up to his door. When he opened it, I threw myself into his arms and was ready to do anything for him. I told him that now that I knew how he really felt about me, I was ready to join my future to his."

"You guys got married?"

"No, I had misinterpreted the whole thing. There I was in his arms, but he was just holding me stiffly like you would hold someone who had fainted. I looked up at him, and he had a stone-cold look on his face. Then he gave a wry smile and led me into the living room. He took out this album and showed me the photos on the very next page."

"Wow, that's amazing. So I need a favor from you, if you don't mind," I said.

"What—you're not going to turn the page?"

"Oh yeah," I said and turned it. In front of my eyes were pictures of classic Gertie poses, some I had seen before, some I had only been forced to imagine.

"Do you recognize this from the movie?" she asked, pointing to the first picture. It was her in the twilight of the evening, obviously upset with someone because she was giving the finger. But in the same hand she was using to flip the bird, she also held a cigarette, which stood straight up alongside her middle finger. The glowing cinder of the cigarette protruded just enough to make it look like the red light was coming out of her nail.

"No!" I said.

"Oh yes. And look at this one," she said, pointing to a picture of a bedroom scene. A young Gertie, wearing nothing but a smile, was spread out seductively on the bed. There was a line of little chocolate candies leading up to her. The man taking the picture was not visible, but his hand was caught in the frame reaching up for a candy.

"But this is the worst one," she said, pointing to a picture of her and Spielberg, basically in the same position she was in when I walked in on her and Tommy, except that she was facing away from him in this one. If I hadn't known her, I'd have been turned on by this, but I couldn't keep the modern, wrinkly Gertie from creeping back into my mind.

"He used to call this position 'the bicycle'," she said. "When I thought about that scene in the movie where they fly off in front of that big moon, it all made sense to me. I couldn't believe it. Then I asked him why he would choose such an ugly-looking thing to turn me into, and he said he got the idea by imagining what I was going to look like after fifty years of year-round tanning and smoking. Did you know he actually hired a two-pack-a-day smoker to do E.T.'s voice?"

I looked at Gertie. My mind's eye did a slow morph of her features, twisting them into an E.T.-ish, wine-drinking, cigarette-smoking mess. She could tell what I was doing.

"Stop that! I don't look like that alien, and you know it. But damn it, once you get the idea in your head, you can't imagine anything else."

"So what did you do? Didn't you want to kill him?" I asked.

"I was stunned. I could barely hold it together. I gave him a good slap and ran out the door with the photo album. After a few minutes of crying in my car, I decided to kill him before anyone could find out about what he had done. I thought that if it got out, I'd never be able to go anywhere without someone calling me E.T. Back in the day, you could buy guns immediately, so I went into a pawn shop and asked for one. Well, I guess my makeup had run all over the place, and even though the pawn guy was sleazy, he refused to sell me what I needed because he could see I was too emotional. He told me to calm down and think everything over for a while. He gave me a replica of James Bond's gun and told me it'd be better if I just scared the shit out of whoever it was I wanted to kill, since that way I'd avoid the slammer. That sounded smart to me."

"So you pulled it on him?" I asked.

"Nope. I stuck the fake Walther PPK in my glove compartment, where it has stayed ever since."

"What? Did you just chicken out or something?"

"Oh no. I drove back to his place and was refreshing my makeup—a girl's gotta look good even with a gun in her hand or else she's just not taken seriously—when I realized I already had the best weapon for revenge. I went back in and laid it all on him. I told him I'd show these pictures to everyone and explain where that wrinkly little alien bastard had actually come from unless he forked over some serious cash. He thought it over for a long time. He calculated what he thought he'd lose in merchandising if parents decided E.T. dolls were perverted, and he made me a deal. I took the money and started up my real-estate business."

"Why do you still have the photos?"

"I told him I was keeping them in case he ever tried to put me in a movie again. He didn't like the idea, but I gave him my word that I'd never milk him for more over the E.T. thing."

"So he must think I found out about all this. He must think I'm trying to blackmail him now."

"I'd be careful if I were you. He's had to deal with a lot of stalkers over the years, and it's only a matter of time before he cracks. You're lucky he didn't send professionals after you."

I heard the shower turn off and decided to get out of there before a wet, naked Tommy made an appearance. I closed the album, handed it back to her and stood up.

"I'm going to take off now, but I might need you later," I said.

"Nothing's free, kid," she said.

10

Back at home, I swallowed another handful of pain killers and watched the TV for a while. It was way past dinner time, but my dad still hadn't come out of my room. I went over and knocked lightly.

"Hey dad, I'm going to pick up some burgers. We'll eat when I get back," I said and waited for a response. I didn't hear anything, so I turned the knob and peeked in. The light was off. I reached in and flipped the switch. The room was empty. I walked over to my bathroom, but that was empty as well. Then, on the off chance he had decided he liked Tommy's room better, I checked in there but once again found nothing. I went outside and walked around the house, but he wasn't there either. Then I remembered that I had told him he'd be sleeping at Dennis' place, so I went over there to look for him. All the lights were off, and he was nowhere to be found.

I was feeling terrible even with the painkillers, but I drove down to Venice Beach to see if I could find him. I looked in all the places he used to hang out. I even looked under the pier. The dozen or so drug dealers who came up to me as I searched hadn't seen him, and neither had any of the other homeless guys I recognized. I circled around the same places for another hour before I forced myself to give up and go back home.

11

When I woke up the next morning, the pain was worse. I couldn't move a single muscle without setting off a wave of aching throughout my body. The only thing I really wanted to do was stay put in bed, but I was worried about my dad and wanted to find out why he had taken off like that. I slowly got ready and then spent most of the day at Venice hoping he'd go back to his old habits so I could find him.

While I was sitting on a low brick wall not too far away from where my dad used to do the sand sculptures, I decided to give Grant a call. I dialed and waited for him to pick up.

"I was wondering when you were going to call," he said. "Steven has been asking me every hour if I've heard from you yet."

"Well look, you can put his mind at ease. He can have anything he wants. I don't care anymore. All I want is to get the envelope back that I gave him on accident."

"I'll let him know and call you back," he said and hung up.

I was returning to my car to give up for the day when the shit phone rang. It was Grant.

"Okay, here's the deal," he said. "Steven doesn't know why you've changed heart all of a sudden, but he's ready to play ball if you're willing to do one extra thing."

"What's that?"

"He said he wants the photo album. He said you'd know what he's talking about. You give him act three and the photo album, and he'll give you the envelope."

"I'm going to need a little time to get the photo album. I'll call you when I have it."

"Okay," he said.

I drove back to my place, went to bed early and slept longer than I had in years.

12

I woke up Saturday afternoon to the whimpering of the big poodle. I still felt like I had a hangover from the beating I had taken, but my muscles now felt slightly itchy, as if they were letting me know that they were ready to be stretched. I threw on yesterday's Arnold and some shorts, and walked Ballsack around the neighborhood to get loosened up.

During the walk, I debated whether I should come right out and tell Gertie that I needed the album. I tried several times to imagine her smiling warmly and telling me that she would, of course, do anything to help a good friend out. That naively optimistic hope would be crushed by the image of a scrutinizing, ball-breaking Gertie, who would simultaneously finagle a large cut of Ignacio's money for herself while making weekly oral sex a part of the deal. No, I would have to try to coax the album away from her when she was in a compromised state.

I came up with a plan. I went to the store and bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, three bottles of Korbel, and a bouquet of red roses. Then I dialed up Gertie.

"Well well," she said. "You've been calling me a lot lately, mister. Starting to realize how lucky your roommate is?"

"Yes, Gertie. Listen. I can't get the image of you out of my mind," I said, thinking it sounded romantic enough to fly.

"You mean the image you took with your camera of me riding your roommate—the one you whack off to every night?"

"Yeah, that one." So much for romance.

"Tommy is going to be working on his computer tonight. Why don't you swing on by and we can talk. And by talk, I mean you can bang me blind and get it all out of your system."

"Okay. That sounds great. I'll be by later."

That evening I put on my newest Arnold and headed over to Venice. When Gertie answered the door, I gave her the roses and showed her the Veuve Clicquot. She was wearing an outfit that didn't hold to her usual tastes at all: a long, black skirt that left no clues as to what kind of underthings she had on, and a long-sleeved, frilly blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her hair was pulled back. She was also wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. She could have come straight from an accounting meeting.

"Wow Gertie. I've never seen you like this before."

"We are colleagues from work, you and I, who have come together for a weekend meeting. You, being a polite guest, have brought some booze. We will drink it, all the while breaking each other's personal space but fighting the urge to jump on each other as best we can, because my husband and your wife would be crushed if we succumbed to our animal desires—not to mention the children, the poor children...But Phyllis just doesn't understand you. She doesn't see how hard you work. All she wants to do is talk about her dysfunctional family and invite her horrible friends over for dinner. I, for you, represent an escape from all that. And you—you are the man I can get revenge upon my cold and indifferent husband with. You got all that?"

"Yeah, I think so. What's my name?"

"Clovis. I'm Esmeralda. Come in." I followed her to the kitchen. She took out a couple of champagne flutes, and I opened the Veuve Clicquot. I put the three bottles of Korbel, still wrapped up in the paper sack, in the fridge.

"Wow, Clovis, you really know your champagne," she said. I poured the two glasses full. We took them into the living room. Gertie snatched the bottle off the counter as we went over.

"Well, I wanted to toast to that business thing we did," I said. Gertie raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly what business thing, my dear Clovis?"

"Um...the thing where we made the money." Gertie rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Look buddy, for this to work right, you have to be a little more creative." She then smiled admiringly and seemed to glow from enthusiasm. "I want to have a toast before we get down to work to celebrate how smoothly you negotiated the takeover of Eddings Heavy Machinery. They fought so hard to block us, but you tore all those walls down and convinced the shareholders that there was no future without major restructuring. When I saw you standing in that board room, I felt so proud to be a part of this organization. In any other context, I wouldn't even notice you, but since we work together eight hours a day, I've been feeling like you're the answer to all my domestic problems. I won't tell you right away, but after we make love, I'll cry and confess that Harold's been slapping me around lately, and I'll tell you that I expect you to kick his ass. Here's to you!" she said, raised her glass and waited for me to reply.

"Thanks. During the takeover, I was only thinking about doing you in the janitor's closet." She leaned her head a little to the left and looked up thoughtfully.

"Okay, that's not a bad start." She clinked her glass against mine. "Here's to being with someone who really understands me."

"You really think that?" I asked, slightly touched.

"Yes, Clovis." She gulped down the champagne and poured another glass immediately. "I love the taste of champagne. It's one of the few alcohols that I can always tell the good from the bad."

I was a little nervous at that last comment. My plan was to let her drink all the wicked expensive Veuve Clicquot, and then when her taste buds were numbed by the alcohol, start her on the cheap Korbel. After five glasses of good champagne, I figured she'd just chug that other crap down out of sheer momentum. But if she didn't, I'd be in trouble. The idea was to get her so liquored up that she wouldn't be able to remember if we did it. I'd tell her we had, of course. I'd tell her it had been the best sex of my life but that I didn't think I could do it again without me risking a heart attack. Then when we were lying back in bed, her on the point of passing out, me reminding myself that sexually transmitted diseases couldn't be obtained from dry humping, I would pretend to break down crying and explain how desperately I needed that album. As soon as she said anything that resembled an agreement, I'd jump out of bed, grab the album and erase from my mind the feeling of her whiskers rubbing against me.

"You're kind of quiet tonight, Clovis. What are you thinking about?"

"You know me. Always thinking about doing," I said, hoping this would turn her on.

"Doing what?"

"The doing," I said. Her eyes lit up.

"When you say it like that, it sounds new and fresh...You're going to take me into unknown territory tonight," she said and gulped down another glass. A long and violent belch rolled up her throat. "Ah, the bubbles." She grabbed the bottle again and poured another, this time causing the white foam to overflow down the side of the glass and onto her hand. She held it up to me.

"It tastes best on the skin," she said and moved the glass even closer to my face. I stuck out my tongue and licked the champagne off her salty skin. She closed her eyes and purred softly. Then she emptied another glass.

When the bottle was empty, I gave her my glass, which she downed happily. She stood up and held out her hand.

"Come with me, Clifford. I can't fight it anymore. I can't hold out against your longing stares. Let's throw caution to the wind and go behave like the animals that we are. Let them talk at the office, let them say what they will." I gave her my hand, and she began leading me to her room.

"One second Esmerda. I want to open another bottle. Go wait for me in your love nest."

"Not bad...You're getting better," she said and weaved down the hall.

I grabbed the flutes, went to the kitchen and opened up a bottle of the Korbel. As I poured, I noticed it was dark orange and smelled a little fruity. When I had a sip of it, I had the impression that someone had made a carbonated drink out of vinegar and mango.

With the two flutes in my hand, I hesitated for a moment. I thought about grabbing the album right then and there and dealing with the consequences later. What could Gertie do to me anyway? Convince Tommy to move out? Yeah, she could do that, and then I wouldn't have anyone to do my laundry or clean up after me. I advanced down the dark hall toward the glowing light at the end of the tunnel.

Her bed was taller than a normal bed. There was something obscene about it, as if it had been adjusted to the perfect height for standing beside it and doing someone who was lying across it. Gertie was propped up on an enormous pile of cushions of various shapes. Her legs were crossed, her hands were behind her head, and she was trying out different sexy puckers and eyelid flutters. Four halogen lamps, set to maximum, stood in the corners of the room. There were two video cameras mounted on tripods, one at the head of the bed, the other at the foot.

"Are those things on?" I asked.

"Yep. They help me remember exactly what goes on in here. Plus, there's just something special about posting videos of yourself on the web."

"Why do you need two cameras?" I asked.

"My fans said I had too many shots of man ass and ball flapping. This way I get different shots I can edit together."

I handed her the flute of champagne and smiled stupidly at the cameras.

"You have to pretend they aren't there," she said. "Don't ever look right into them. It weirds out all the voyeurs. They don't like to think you're watching them spank it."

She lifted up the glass to her nose and took a long sniff. The practiced expression of lustiness began to contort slightly. I tried to make her think of something else before she got too focused on the Korbel.

"So what do you want me to do?" I asked a little more loudly than would have been natural. She lowered the glass and looked up at me.

"You're going to ask me for that book I mentioned, and I'm going to roll over on my stomach and fish it out of my nightstand for a long time. I'll be giving you quite a show. You stick out your hand and try to feel my rump without me noticing. I'll catch you in the act, slap you, and then pull you on top of me. After some caressing, we'll have deeply meaningful sex, full of mutual respect. Just be sure to spank me a lot."

Gertie was speaking much slower than before, and she was having trouble keeping eye contact. When she spoke to me, it looked like she was focusing on my nose. Unfortunately, she was still too sober for me to get what I wanted. The champagne she had already drunk was clearly catching up with her, but I needed to stall until the full effect arrived.

I put my glass on the nightstand and moved to the end of the bed, where I sat down and took one of Gertie's feet in my hands. I peeled off the flesh-colored knee-high and began massaging her toes, rolling them between my fingers with the same gesture I normally use to signal that something is going to cost a lot. She moaned contentedly and occasionally laughed when I hit a ticklish spot. Then I saw her bring the flute up to her lips. I took her foot firmly in my hands and pressed hard into the sole with my two thumbs.

"Hey! What's the big idea, mister?" she said, lowering the glass.

"That's a pressure point. If that hurt, it means you are carrying too much stress. I barely even pressed on it."

"Huh. I guess I have been a little stressed lately," she said and went back to focusing on a random spot on the wall, her eyes half closed like those of a fat cat lying on a sunny windowsill.

The more I softly massaged her, the closer she slowly moved the champagne toward her lips. When it would get within a few inches, I'd dig in hard with my thumbs, sending a bolt of pain into her slowly deadening receptors. She was able to muffle the yelps, but her upper lip would contract on the left side like Elvis'. By giving her the occasional jolt, I was able to keep her from drinking, but I realized it had the unfortunate side effect of keeping her awake and feisty. After I finished with the other foot, I knew I was going to have to find a new way to stall.

I slid up beside her and started working on her shoulders, figuring this would be a good escalation of events that, at the same time, wouldn't cost me anything. I was wrong. She leaned over toward me, closed her eyes and moved in for a kiss. I weaved a little to avoid her. She opened her eyes, readjusted her aim, closed her eyes and went for it again. I resolved to do this. All I needed was the mental image of a hot babe to get me through, but when I tried to think of a Hollywood starlet, Helen's face came to me so clearly that I felt like my insides had been pulled down. I leaned away from Gertie to avoid her lips. She kept coming forward until she was stretched out farther than she had expected, and as she put her free hand down on the bed to prevent herself from toppling over, I saw her throat convulse.

"Eeu! I jus vomi-ed in ma mowf!" she said and propped herself upright. She brought the Korbel up to her lips and downed the entire thing in a few deep, throaty gulps. Then she crisped her lips and gave a few involuntary shakes of her head. When she opened her eyes again and was able to ease her contracted features, she looked at me indignantly.

"Herisson, I just swallowed two liquids, and one of them tasted worse than vomit," she growled. "You gave me the old switcheroo with the booze, which means..."

She jumped up from the bed and took off down the hall. As I got up to go after her, my foot got caught on the blanket, and since the bed was higher than a normal one, I wasn't prepared for the extra time it took my other foot to touch the floor, kind of like when you're going up a flight of stairs in the dark, and, when at the top, you try to step onto a final, imagined step. I tumbled over, knocking down the tripod at the foot of the bed. I popped back up and ran down the hall.

Gertie had already grabbed the album, which she now held tucked under her left arm. She was frantically digging through a kitchen drawer, causing a duo of sounds to splash through the house: the clinking of silverware and the pounding of utensils against wood. When she saw me, she picked up the last thing her hand had passed over and raised it into a stabbing position. It was a fondue fork.

"Gertie, this is all a misunderstanding."

"We'll see about that," she said and backed over to the fridge. She opened it and saw the bottles of Korbel, turned her head away and closed her eyes as if she had seen a photo of collateral damage from a pointless war.

"Oh the deception," she said. "Using filthy booze and carnal promises to get what you want. I'd normally give you points for that, but you can't try it against me!"

"That's not exactly what I was going to do. I was going to ask you for the album."

"After we got it on?"

"Well, no..."

"Ha!" she yelled and raised her fondue fork menacingly. "You lied to me, villain! I should call Tommy and tell him you tried to rape me!"

"Come on Gertie. Let's talk this over."

"I'd never talk anything over with a backstabber like you," she said, twisting her face into an expression of hatred. Then a calm came over her. "None of this potential violence and hate-filled accusation is making you horny, is it?"

I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the stress, maybe the accumulation of tiredness and uncertainty about the future, but I started crying like a jackass.

"Oh Jesus, what the hell is this?" she asked. "No seriously, stop that right now."

"I'm sorry Gertie," I said, choking on my words. I could feel my nose starting to run, so I raised my arm up preparing to wipe it on my sleeve.

"Don't do that! It's disgusting! Wait a minute." She grabbed a paper towel for me and came over. "Here you go. Let it all out."

"Thanks Gertie," I said and blew out what felt like a year's worth of suppressed frustration.

"What the hell's wrong with you, anyway?" she asked and led me over to the couch to sit down.

"I've screwed everything up. My dad's off wandering the streets again, my ex-girlfriend has gotten over me and moved on, my career is a joke and even if I got what I need from Spielberg, how long would that last me? I feel ashamed that I was going to take advantage of you for that album. I'm sorry Gertie."

"Answer me this: what exactly do you want with those pictures you accidentally gave Steven?"

"The guy in the photos will pay me to keep—hey, how do you know about that?"

"Steven called me today. He doubted I had anything to do with this situation and wanted to see what I knew."

"So you knew he had asked me to bring him the album?"

"Of course," she said and opened the album. All the photos had been taken out.

"And you let me do all this without saying a thing? You were going to let me get naked and make a dirty internet movie for nothing?"

"Don't pretend you wouldn't have enjoyed that, Herisson. And anyway, none of this was for nothing. I needed to know what you were made of—to see if you were willing to go the distance. I've been thinking for a while now that I'm ready to go down to part time and take on a partner."

"Because you're getting old and you're ready to retire?" She shot me a look of death and rolled her eyes.

"I'm nowhere near retirement, bozo. But this relationship with Tommy has made me realize what's important in life. I want to take more time to have sex with very young immigrants whose linguistic difficulties and ignorance of the way things work here make them ideal boyfriends. You can tell them anything followed by 'that's what we do here', and they believe it. I'm going to get my English-teaching certificate and then start doing one-on-one lessons."

"But did I pass your test? Are you going to give me a job?" I asked, unable to hold back an optimistic smile.

"You could have done better. Taking advantage of me was essential for your plan, but you skimped on the champagne and blew it. Imagine what kind of message you'd be sending if you pulled that while trying to sell a house. Your potential buyers would start thinking that the property you were selling was just as crappy as the gimmick you were using to sell it. Remember, since we actually do nothing of value for anyone, we can't be insulting, because then clients get upset at having to cough up that huge commission."

"That seems so clear now, but when I was getting ready for the evening, I didn't even think about it."

"Rookie mistake," she said. "But I'm willing to work with you, as long as you're willing to bring something to the table. People always work harder when they risk losing something. So what do you have?"

I thought about this for a moment. I couldn't risk my house, because when I did find my dad, I planned on putting him in it and letting Tommy help me keep an eye on him. The only thing I had was the money Ignacio was going to give me for the photos, and since I was going to have to tell Gertie about that anyway, I figured what the hell.

"I'm going to get a ton of money for those photos that Spielberg has, if I can get them back."

"What kind of business have you gotten yourself into here?" she asked.

"They're photos that a guy doesn't want his rich wife to see. He'll give me a hundred grand to hand them over."

"How did you get them in the first place?"

"Someone else is paying me to deliver them to the wife," I said.

"And you think the guy who wants you to deliver them isn't going to kill you once he finds out what you've done?" I hadn't even considered the possibility, and Dennis would be arriving at the airport the very next day.

"Now that you mention it, yeah, he might. I've been told he's a little unbalanced."

"One hundred grand is worth putting up with a lot. If you get it, we'll sink it into a sweet foreclosure and sit on it until the market rebounds. It'll be your first official project. You can live there until we're ready to sell it, and you can pay the mortgage with the money you're getting from renting out your house."

"That would be perfect. You know, I'll have to give your album back to Spielberg to get the photos."

"I got all the money I intended to get out of it. A little extra now would be a fine way to end the whole thing," she said.

13

I woke up Sunday morning feeling like I had a weight on my chest. I could almost feel Dennis approaching in the airplane, as if he and I were opposing magnetic forces. I had originally planned on picking him up from the airport so that I could get that last check, but I needed to stay away from him now that I was going to give the photos to Ignacio. Dennis may have already called Ignacio's wife and learned that I hadn't delivered them. If that was the case, I certainly didn't want to go all the way down to LAX just to get punched in the nose.

As much as I hated it, I took Ballsack back to Dennis' place and left him in the courtyard. Stealing photos that Dennis had obtained questionably was one thing, but if I stole his dog, he'd have something to report to the police. Ballsack barked at me as I shut the gate, and it felt like he was accusing me of leaving him with a psycho. I said a teary goodbye to him and gave his afro one last tussle. Then I slid Dennis' keys through the mail slot, took a last look at the cars and left.

At about 10am, the shit phone started ringing. I waited until it went to voice mail and then listened to the message.

"Lonnie, it's Dennis. The plane has just landed. I hope you remembered me, because I couldn't sleep at all on the way back, and all I want to do is go home. I think I took too many sleeping pills. They say if you take too many, it has the opposite effect. I'll call you again from baggage."

He called again twenty minutes later.

"Lonnie...I'm just waiting for my bags. When I get them, I'll head outside and wait for you," he said impatiently.

I got another call a little later.

"Okay, you've obviously forgotten about me. I'm taking a cab, which I'll definitely take out of your last check. Thanks a lot."

I called Gertie.

"Yeah," she said.

"Gert, he's back in town and it's freaking me out. I really want to get this photo thing over with. Have you talked to Spielberg yet?"

"Yep. We're going to meet him at three this afternoon. After that, I want to go directly to your guy Ignacio and get the money before he gets any other ideas. Don't worry about anything. You'll never have to see that Dennis guy again anyway."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Even if we bumped into each other on the street, I don't know if he'd recognized me. I've cleaned up a lot since the last time I saw him. Can you pick me up to go meet Spielberg? I had to leave Dennis' cars at his place, and I'm not ready to start driving my old piece of crap again."

"Sure. No problem. Talk to you later."

Talking to Gertie had made me feel better. It was true that I wouldn't have to see Dennis anymore. Plus, there was no reason to feel guilty about what I was doing. He had planned to screw Ignacio over, and even if Ignacio deserved it, Dennis was definitely in a moral gray area. How could I feel bad for making money off that? Someone was going to make money; it may as well have been me.

I got another message from Dennis a short while later. He was in the taxi on the way home. I could hear the sounds of passing cars and the occasional honking. He sounded out of his mind.

"Lonnie, friend, I just called Mrs. Reyes. She said she hadn't heard from you. Why hasn't she heard from you? I'm heading home right now, and I'm going to get the envelope that you clearly must have forgotten all about, like you forgot about me at the airport. I think you should call me. Yes, give me a call."

I don't know if it was the conversation with Gertie or the idea that I was soon going to get a huge amount of money for doing practically nothing, but I suddenly felt like I could tell Dennis off without worrying about anything. I hit the call button and waited for Dennis to pick up.

"Oh Lonnie! Jesus, I was worried stiff. I was starting to think you had dropped off the face of the earth."

"No, I'm here."

"Wait just a minute. We're pulling into the driveway." I heard him get out of the car and shut the door. Then he began talking to the cabbie, who I couldn't hear. "If you want a tip, you'll at least carry the bags up to the door. My god you people. Why should you be tipped anyway? Your cab smelled less like urine than a normal cab, so here's some money? You didn't break any traffic laws, so here's your reward? On second thought, don't touch my bags. No, no! Put them down. Oh god, okay. Fine, now I have to give you a tip because you bravely lifted my bags out of your trunk. Great. Here you are. Have a nice day," he said and started talking to me again. "These people! I swear. So Lonnie, what—"

"Look Dennis," I interrupted. "I found out about you. I know what you were trying to do to Ignacio. I want you to know that I'm not handing the photos over, and if you think you can—"

"Oh my god! What the hell did you do to Manolete? He looks like a bear! Didn't you have him groomed?" It appeared he hadn't registered what I had said.

I heard growling in the background.

"What's this? You don't remember me? Jesus Lonnie, I don't think he can see me through that huge afro. He's showing his teeth now. No! Bad dog! Ahhhh!" he yelled. I heard more barking, the ripping of clothing, a door opening and shutting, and then panting. "What the hell was that?" he said, out of breath. "You've got to come over and calm him down."

"Here's the thing. Those photos? I'm giving them to Ignacio, and you—you're going to stay away from me," I said forcefully. "If you screw with me at all, I'll go fucking bat-shit nuts all over you. You got that?"

"You took my photos? You goddamn thief! I wanted you to deliver those photos to—what the hell is this homeless man doing on my couch? Hey!" he yelled. I heard a distinctly familiar voice utter an indistinct question. "What did you say?" continued Dennis. "No I don't want to play a fucking game of chess! What are you doing here? Answer me!" There was a brief, noiseless pause, and then Dennis started talking to me again. "Look Lonnie, I've got to call the cops. I'll call you back," he said and hung up.

I once took one of those Hollywood tours, and the guy driving the van said that in Bel Air, the cops took an average of 44 seconds to get to a burglary. For everyone else, it took at least four minutes longer. My dad probably wouldn't rank as an emergency, so that would buy me a few more minutes.

I grabbed the keys to my shit car and ran out of the house. I threw the car's flimsy door open and jumped in, rocking that rust bucket like a canoe. After fumbling with the keys while letting out a string of obscenities, I started up the motor and floored it. After driving Dennis' cars for so long, I now felt like I was driving a car specially designed for people with visual impairments, for people who, if given the power of more than four horses, would veer off over cliffs, end up in a lake, or drive into a store front. I ran the stop signs, swerving around cars that had already entered the intersections. I passed everyone in front of me, but I had the feeling that the drivers allowed me to do this out of pity, that when they saw me in the shit mobile, they slowed down and only pretended to be offended at my supposedly aggressive driving so as not to hurt the fragile ego of the man who would drive such a car.

I cut through a yard to turn onto Dennis' street and then double parked in front of his house. I ran over to the gate, but it was locked. I gave a few loud knocks and then circled around to the backyard, scaled the fence, and went over to the kitchen door, which I luckily hadn't bothered having repaired. I reached through the broken panel, unlocked it, and opened the door in one swift movement to avoid a drawn-out, cat-in-heat squeak from the hinges. I crept softly across the glass-covered linoleum.

At the entrance to the living room, I peeked out from the kitchen to see my dad sitting on the couch looking filthy but otherwise calm. On the coffee table he had set up a dirty, mismatched chess set that he must have recuperated from a hidden stash in Venice. He had set a few dollars to the side of the vinyl roll-up board to entice whatever potential adversaries might have been roaming the house. Through the living room window I could see Dennis crossing the courtyard toward the front gate where a ghost version of me stood outside waiting for him. He opened the door to no one and then stepped outside to look up and down the street.

I rushed over to my dad, who didn't look surprised to see me.

"Let's get out of here. That guy called the cops, and they're coming to arrest you!"

"I need a bag to put the pieces in," he said, looking at his board.

"Jesus, I'll buy you better ones. Forget them," I said, but he kept staring at them and didn't move.

I looked out the window and could see through the open courtyard gate that Dennis was now standing next to a cop in the street. The cop was standing by my car and was saying something into his radio.

I went to the coffee table and began stuffing the chess pieces into the pockets of my shorts. My dad watched, clearly amused by all this.

"Come on! Get up and help me!" I said. He stood up and began putting the pieces in his pockets one at a time. He ended up with four or five pieces at the most. My pockets were jammed full. The sharp edges dug into my skin and made it uncomfortable to move. I rolled up the board and led my dad out the kitchen door.

We went through the backyard and then circled around to the front. Dennis was leading the policeman into the courtyard. I heard Ballsack growl as they passed. When their voices trailed off into the house, we continued on toward my car. I looked across the courtyard and saw a wildly gesticulating Dennis trying to explain that there really had been a homeless man on the couch. Then he began pointing to the kitchen, and they left the living room.

I sprinted to the car. The cop had left a ticket on my windshield, but since it had bought me extra time, I was happy to see it. I grabbed it, opened the car door, and then almost had a panic attack when I saw that my dad had not followed me to the car and was now nowhere to be seen. I couldn't yell for him, so I just stood there dazed not knowing what to do. If he had forgotten something and gone back to get it, we were screwed. Dennis could deny ever having had anything to do with me, and the shattered glass from the kitchen door would back up his claims that we had broken in. As much as I hated the idea, I was going to have to leave my dad there because someone was going to have to be available to spring him out of jail. I got in the car and exploded with pain when I sat down on the chess pieces. I started up the car and threw it into first and then gave another look toward the house. My dad came walking casually out of the courtyard carrying the big poodle. I gestured with my hands for him to hurry up. He opened the door without putting the dog down and got in. I hit the gas and Ballsack stuck his head out of the window.

"You should really give the dog a shave. Poodles don't shed," said my dad. That was news to me. What had they done when they had lived in the wild? Had they gone around striking terror in the hearts of whatever animals were afraid of giant afros?

On the way back I explained why we couldn't go over to Dennis' anymore. I also told my dad that I'd be moving into a new house soon, so he could have my room all to himself from now on. That made him feel better.

14

I had a few hours to kill until Gertie picked me up, so after moving my dad into my room, I took the electric clippers I used to use on myself and went out on the patio with the big poodle. I only intended to cut him some eye holes, but when I did that and stood back to get a good look at him, his head looked deformed. I trimmed the rest of his head fro down, practically to the skin, but then he looked like he had had a run in with a head-shrinking cannibal. I spent the next hour shaving him down all over, and he didn't like it at all. He had this ashamed look on his face. I left one giant ball of fur on his tail like I occasionally saw on dog-show poodles. I tried to get him to look at it so he could see that he wasn't entirely naked, but he wasn't moved at all. When I let him loose, he ran through the backyard and rolled around like crazy. He looked more like a greyhound-rat mix now, but at least he could see.

My phone rang constantly. I listened to a little of the first message and then stopped after it became apparent that they were all going to be about the many ways in which Dennis was going to kill me. Had I kept listening instead of turning off the phone like I did, I would have learned something useful: Dennis had convinced the cop to find out the address of the car owner who had been double parked in front of his house. If we hadn't stolen the big poodle right from under the policeman's nose, I'd have probably never had to see Dennis again.

15

Gertie honked from my driveway at half past two. With act three tucked under my arm, I went outside and got in the Eldorado. She was dressed in a new outfit that made her look like a Spanish dancer—black, frilly skirt with a red belt, white-lace blouse, and a black choker with a faux diamond in the middle. She had clearly just come from the hairdresser. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and her make-up looked professionally done as well. The amount of leg I could see was covered by barely noticeable panty hose, the kind that, when you see professional ice skaters wearing them, you get mistakenly excited at first thinking of how many times you're going to get flashed during the performance. On Gertie, the whole getup made her look no older than, say, 56.

"Wow baby! All dolled up for your ex-boyfriend," I said and shut the car door.

"I want him to see that I look nothing like what he predicted."

"Where does he want to meet us?"

"On the Malibu pier," she said and pulled out.

We headed north up the Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean was spread out below the cliffs on our left; the hills on our right were covered with houses built on stilts. Every available space on those slopes had a house somewhere, and they all looked like a good rain would send them sliding down onto the highway.

What I didn't realize was that Dennis had been parked on my street, waiting for me to come out of my house, and was now following us.

Gertie began her juggling act with the lighter, cigarette and steering wheel. She clearly had depth-perception issues. She had to focus really hard on the end of her cigarette in order to bring the lighter up to the right place to light it. I had to reach up and grab the steering wheel to steer us back on course, and as a barrage of honking exploded around us, Gertie looked up, saw my hand on the wheel and glared.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" she asked. "Leave the driving to me."

We weaved up the coast and passed the sign that welcomed us to Malibu and its "27 miles of scenic beauty." Ten minutes later, Gertie hung a dangerous U-turn at the pier and parked on the side of the highway.

"So, you still have that gun in here?" I asked, pointing at the glove box.

"Yep. Every once in a while if someone does something really stupid on the road, I like to pull it out and wave it around. The traffic opens up around me immediately."

"Can I see it?"

"Sure," she said.

I opened up the glove compartment, dug around underneath the condoms and pulled out the Walther PPK. Now that I knew it wasn't real, I didn't feel as tough as I had the first time I had held it, but it was still cool.

Gertie was giving her make-up a final once-over in the rearview mirror. I was twirling the gun on my finger, trying to catch it and aim all in one smooth motion. The first few times, I dropped it on the floorboard and had to bend over and stretch to pick it up. Then I flipped it a little faster, and it went around and came to rest in my palm perfectly.

All of a sudden, two hands grabbed the gun and began smashing my hand down on the car door. I let go of the gun and turned to see Dennis. He put the gun up against the side of my head.

"The worm turns!" he yelled.

"What the hell does that mean?" I said, holding my hand in pain.

"It means that you think the worm is going in one direction, and then—pow!—he goes in the other direction, and his head becomes his ass!"

I was a little confused as to why he would make such a declaration. Apparently Gertie was equally mystified.

"Who is the worm in this situation?" she asked.

"I'm the worm, damn it! I'm the fucking worm!"

"Are you the ass now, or were you the ass before?" she asked.

"Enough talk!" he yelled. "You're going to give me those pictures now, or this is going to get ugly."

"We don't have them. We came here to get them from the guy who does," I said.

"How did he get them?"

"I gave them to him on accident, but he realized what they were worth," I said.

"He's about to learn that they're worth a headache. Where are you supposed to meet this guy?"

"At the end of the pier," said Gertie. "He'll be standing near the fishermen. He's an old guy with a beard. You'll recognize him easily. He looks exactly like Steven Spielberg."

Dennis slowly took the gun off me and moved back from the car.

"Don't even think about following me," he said and ran toward the entrance to the pier.

"Why did you tell him where Spielberg was?" I asked, but Gertie just held up a finger to tell me to be quiet and dialed a number on her phone.

"Steven? We're here, but we've got a problem. There's a nutbag coming your way right now. It's a long story, but basically he has a non-working replica of James Bond's gun that he thinks is real, and he's coming to steal the pictures," she said and then listened. "That'd be great." She hung up and then turned to me. "Everything will work out fine."

"Really?"

"Actually, it couldn't have worked out better. Let's go watch," she said and got out of the car.

We walked down the highway to a spot from where the end of the pier came into view. I could see Dennis looking around the crowd, trying to find Spielberg. Then he walked straight over to a man who was fishing and grabbed him by the shirt.

"He's got the wrong guy there," said Gertie.

Dennis seemed to be yelling at the guy and shaking him a little. After the fisherman yelled something back, Dennis let go of him and moved away, continuing his search. Then he noticed Spielberg. He walked over to him with his hand in his pocket, and when he got right next to him, he pulled out the gun and stuck it against his side.

"He's going to regret that. Steven has a lot of built up rage. People have been stalking him ever since he became famous," said Gertie.

Spielberg put his hands up slowly, and then with one vicious backhand chop, he hit Dennis in the throat. Dennis went sprawling down onto the pier. Spielberg made a gesture to a couple of the fisherman, his disguised bodyguards, who rushed over and grabbed Dennis.

Gertie and I walked to the end of the pier. We couldn't get near Spielberg because the crowd around him had become enormous. After the police made their way over, they took down several eye-witness accounts, handcuffed Dennis and then led him off to their cruiser.

As Spielberg was being escorted down the pier by the police, he took out his phone and dialed. Gertie's cell rang.

"Did you have to hit the guy in the throat?" Gertie asked and then listened. "Well, I guess that was fair. He didn't realize it was a fake. So where do we meet up now? Okay. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

16

We drove south on the PCH to a fish restaurant named Gladstone's, which overlooked the ocean. Gertie pulled into the parking lot and got in line for the valet parking. Like most of the valet parking in L.A., the lines you had to wait in usually took you longer than it would have taken just to pull in and find your own spot. In fact, the spots that the valets were driving to were only about a hundred feet beyond the front of the line of cars. Gertie handed the keys over to a really shady-looking guy. We stood there watching him from the sidewalk to see how long he lingered inside the car after pulling into the space. He got out within an acceptable amount of time, so we headed into the restaurant.

Gertie told the hostess who we were there to see. We were directed to a part of the restaurant that had been blocked off by partitions. We walked behind them and saw a table for four with a great view of the ocean, but instead of Spielberg waiting for us, there was only Grant, texting away on his phone. When he saw us he gave a nod and continued to text, but now he grimaced and held the phone up higher to let us know that he was making every human effort possible to finish quickly. He firmly pressed the send button, sighed and then looked at us.

"Glad you could make it," he said.

"Where's Steven?" asked Gertie, checking her hair in the reflection of the window.

"He couldn't make it. He's got a fleet of paparazzi behind him now. But don't worry—I have what you want. Sit down. The studio is picking up our lunch."

Gertie and I sat down. She slid the photo album over to Grant. I took out the third act and slid it his way as well.

"Great. And here are your photos," he said and handed me the envelope.

"Thanks. I'm kind of curious to know why you wanted this thing. I only wrote it when I thought...well, when I thought Spielberg wanted to know what Gertie here was up to."

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," Grant said, "but it's too late for you to do anything about it anyway. When we thought you were trying to blackmail us with this script, we decided to take action. We saw that you didn't have it copyrighted, so I typed it up and added some more scenes explaining how the Dweller came to Earth, and then we gave it to a USC student. We told him if he managed to make a good film with a non-existent budget and handheld cameras, we'd give him a job on Steven's next project. He's almost finished filming act two now. Steven will be able to parry any future accusations involving the name 'Gertie Elliot' by saying you saw the independent film he produced and are trying to capitalize on a coincidence. We thought it would be a giant piece of garbage, but the kid managed to get Nicolas Cage to star in it. Nick is apparently trying to jump start his career by doing quirky, independent stuff for free."

"This is terrible. I can't believe I wrote a Nicolas Cage movie," I said.

"I even wrote in a sweet tag line for him once he signed on. He looks at the Dweller and says 'I'm giving' this world an antenna enema'. Great stuff...Are you hungry? You guys should try the shrimp here. We'll get some appetizers."

We stuffed ourselves royally while listening to Grant talk about himself and what it was like to work with Steven. At the end of the meal, the waiter took away our leftovers and then came back a few minutes later with huge doggy bags made out of aluminum foil, folded to look like enormous crabs. I felt pretty stupid walking out of the place holding a big fucking aluminum-foil crab, especially since everybody stared at it. They didn't stare out of surprise—it was nothing new to them—but rather because they were comparing my crab to the animals that their waiters had done for them. And what was worse was that by the time I made it out the door, I had managed to get pissed off because some other waiter toward the entrance had done these swans that looked amazing. The people there gave my crab snobby looks and muttered to each other how much better theirs were, the dickheads.

Gertie handed the valet our number, and then we stood on the curb for about twenty minutes waiting for them to get to us. We weren't the only ones doing this. There were about fifteen people, all standing there looking at their cars, which were at the most one hundred feet away. No one dared just ask for the keys and walk over there themselves. That would have upset a vital part of the L.A. economy—the part that allows people with shit jobs to make just enough money to share a one-bedroom apartment with three people and look for acting jobs during the week. The valets did their best to look sweaty and tired in order to seem to deserve the tips. I pretended to appreciate it and handed ours a finsky, and we set off again.

17

Gertie drove directly to the Malibu police station.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"Making sure we don't have any problems in the future."

We went inside and asked to file a report. A policeman brought us over to his desk and asked what the nature of our complaint was. Gertie explained that we had been about to take a walk on the Malibu pier when a lunatic reached in our car, hit me, and stole the fake PPK. The policeman looked at us in astonishment.

"You'll never believe what happened afterward," he said. "That lunatic ran down the pier and used your fake gun to force Steven Spielberg to take a picture with him! Mr. Spielberg beat him up pretty good. He's got a low tolerance for this sort of thing. Would you be willing to testify against the thief?"

"Of course," said Gertie. "But then we'd also like a restraining order in case he goes nuts on us once he realizes we helped put him away."

"No problem," he said and whipped out a couple of forms to fill out. The whole thing took less than an hour.

18

Ignacio told us to meet him outside his office building in Century City. When we pulled up to the address he had given me, I dialed his number, and he came out five minutes later. He was holding a bamboo-fiber grocery bag that didn't look anywhere near as bulky as I thought a sack containing one hundred grand would. He bent over and leaned against the car door.

"You'll never believe who I just got a call from," he said.

"Was it Dennis from jail, calling you to bail him out for having stuck a fake gun in a movie director's face?" asked Gertie. He looked shocked that we could know such a thing.

"Exactly. He said he'd forget everything that had happened between us if I'd bail him out. As if I was going to believe that." He handed me the ecologically friendly grocery bag. I handed him the envelope with the photos. He took it, looked at the contents, and smiled as though he had been set free from prison.

"I know I don't need to thank you since I'm paying you, but thanks all the same," he said.

"No problem," I said. "Hey, I've been wondering about something. Why did you have me follow Gertie around anyway?"

"When I was talking to you that day, I saw her name on the for-sale sign in the yard down the street from Dennis' house and figured if you were out following her around it would give me enough time to slip into the house and get what I wanted."

"So all this happened for no real reason at all," I said, thinking about my new job and all the things I had done to get that far.

"Next time you need to buy or sell property, we're your team," said Gertie, whipping out a business card and handing it to Ignacio. "You've seen that we'll stop at nothing. No matter what you want sold, we can find a way to do it."

"She means 'sell it'," I added.

"I'll definitely call you. It looks like a family member's health is declining rapidly. I'll have a house to sell very quickly after he passes away." He gave a little wave and pocketed the card. Then he turned and walked back into the building.

We started off toward Gertie's bank. I opened the sack and pulled out a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and ran my thumb over the edge.

"When are we going to buy the house?" I asked.

"I've got three potential properties I'll take you by next week. All of them are in Santa Monica. I'll let you choose the one you want, partner."

"I've got one change I'd like to make to the plan," I said.

"What is it?"

"I'm not going to live in it immediately. Maybe never. It won't be up to me."

19

A couple of weeks later I pulled up to our new house in my hybrid, which Gertie had strategically chosen for me since any luxury item I was missing at the beginning of my career could then be justified by saying I was trying to save the planet, and since that was going to be really fashionable for at least two more years, it would give an aura of caring to my real-estate persona. I was early, so I stepped out of the car and did a little light stretching. My back had been killing me lately. With my dad now sleeping in my room, I had moved into the living room. After one week on the couch, I had bought a sleeper sofa, but that was no better.

After a while I saw Helen's car driving slowly down the street. She was looking at the numbers on the houses, trying to find the address I had given her. When she got closer she saw me, waved and pulled over to the curb. As she walked over to me, she took a look at the house. I could see that she thought I was being ridiculous.

"There's no way I can afford anything like this," she said and gave me a hug. "Is this your car?"

"Yes. It gets great gas mileage."

"Huh," she said.

"Let me show you the place. The guy is desperate to have you move in."

We walked around the property and then into the house. Helen wasn't looking seriously at anything. I could tell that she loved it but that she didn't want to have to go through the usual process of loving a place and then slinking away once she was told the price. We made our way through the house, starting with the living room. It had the usual fireplace that only people from L.A. can understand the utility of having here, since to us anything below 70 degrees is close to freezing. Next we visited the three bedrooms, each of which had its own bathroom. And finally we checked out the open kitchen, which had Italian tiling and an elaborate gas stove covered by a vent two times larger than what seemed necessary.

"So when do you want to move in?" I asked once we had finished the tour and were back in the living room.

"Yeah, right. Look, I know this is your universe now, but it almost seems cruel to show me something like this when you know I can't afford it. I visited a one-bedroom not far from here last month that was more than I could afford, so there's no way I'll be able to pay for a house."

"This one is yours," I said, holding out the keys, which she didn't take. "Don't get me wrong. You can't have it, because it's not entirely mine. But I invested in it with Gertie, and we're going to sit on it until the market clears up. That'll be at least four or five years from now, so until then, I want to put someone in it I can trust."

"But I can't pay the rent here," she said.

"I'm paying the rent. I want you to let me do this," I said.

"But—" she began.

"No. It's okay. I'm not trying to buy you. I want you to let me do this because I can't stand what I did before, and this will help me apologize. I had a shot at having a future with you, but I just weaseled free rent out of the situation and continued bouncing through life like nothing mattered. So think of this as my part of the rent from the last couple of years—just a little late."

"You...are you going to move in here?" she asked, less bothered by the idea than I would have imagined.

"I'm going to stay at my place. If you never want me to come over, it'll be okay. I mean, I'll understand. But let me do this. There are no strings attached."

She looked at the house and could barely contain a smile. Then she regained her composure and seemed to push the idea out of her head.

"It's too much..." she said.

I tossed the keys up in the air in front of her. Before she had time to think, she reached out with her hand and grabbed them.

"I left the lease in the kitchen. Sign and initial every page and mail it to me. I had to put the official rent amount as one dollar, but don't worry about paying it."

I walked over to the door, opened it, and then turned back to say goodbye. Helen was looking over toward me, but in a way she hadn't looked at me before. I'm not talking about a deeper-kind-of-love look, but rather a look that seemed to indicate she was having a hard time connecting the current image of me with the former one she had been carrying around with her.

"I hope you like living here," I said.

"I think I will."

20

I soon took over most of the day-to-day activities of Gertie's business. As planned, Gertie started an ESL-certification program as soon as Tommy had moved on, so she was happy to see me take over. I still called her in for the big negotiations, but she let me cut my teeth on the smaller deals, and, after she had approved my staging, I was in control of most of the open houses.

My new tenant gave me that dollar a month after all, at first over lunch, and then eventually over dinner. She also gave me books on poodle grooming, chess, and do-it-yourself projects, the latter being Gertie's idea, who said that we, and by that she meant I, should look into saving money on renovations. And after some time, well, you knew it had to happen—like I said before, every story pretty much ends the same way. But I'm not going to describe that. I mean, you don't really think that I'm the kind of guy who talks about that sort of thing, do you?

