L.A. Success (33 page)

“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.