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February 10, 2008

Peet’s

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 10, 2008 11:57 AM
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I “borrowed” one of Margo’s credit cards to rent an inconspicuous car, which I took up Ventura to the first address Tommy had given me. It’s a nice little coffee shop called Peet’s, which I’ve been to several times I recommend their americanos. Nobody in Southern California has espresso as smooth and flavorful—not even Tully’s.

At around 2:15—just about eight hours after I’d shown up, but luckily I was still buzzing on my third americano—the man himself showed up. True to Tommy’s word, the man didn’t look nearly as frail as when I last saw him. He also didn’t appear to be accompanied by militants or the Tweed Brothers here. Must think he’s pretty safe in America.

I felt compelled to rush him right then, but I knew if I did, he’d never lead me to La Madera Verde, the man I really wanted, so I kept my mouth shut. I waited another 10 minutes until the elderly man finally shuffled out the front door and got back into his Oldsmobile. He pulled out into traffic without even checking his blindspot, causing a huge SUV to swerve and pound the horn as it brushed past him.

I waited until he was fully out and had gotten about a block ahead before I checked myself and merged into midday traffic.

I followed him for what felt like hours, careful to keep myself back. It was harder to do than you’d think because the old man drove like an old man, which meant I had to somehow keep with the flow of traffic while driving between five and 15 under the limit.

Eventually, he hooked right onto Topanga Canyon. I kept on him until he made the left at Victory. I had no choice but to get right behind him. I knew I’d get caught now, but the old man really had a problem with checking his mirrors. He made the turn without once looking in the rearview. And here I was kicking myself for not wearing a disguise.

Completely ignoring traffic, Clement Okon cut a quick left onto a side street. I watched as I waited for traffic to clear. He pulled into a long parking lot a few hundred yards down the narrow street. I made my turn and blew past as quickly as possible, so as not to attract attention. I watched Clement enter a building labeled “4200” as I blew past. I went around the corner, headed back up Victory, and parked in the lot. I went into building 4200.

The hall was narrow and lit low, so it took a minute for my eyes to adjust. I moved quietly and listened hard at each door. The first two were child actors and overbearing stage parents. In the third, it sounded like two women having vibrator-enhanced sex. In the fourth, I heard the low rumble of a Nigerian accent, followed by the musical lull of a Nicaraguan accent.

I made note of the room number: 106.

I went back to the car and popped the trunk. Inside, I put some of Margo’s favorite toys: tear gas, a gas mask, a long leather trenchcoat, and a sawed-off .12 gauge.

I popped on the coat, hid the mask, gas, and gun inside it, then snuck around the balconies until I made room 106 from outside. I stood on the ground-level patio, careful to remain hidden from the doors. I popped on the gas mask and was about to pull out the canister of tear gas when the patio door slid open.

Renal Rojas stepped out. She wore a bra and underwear and nothing else. An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips. She was about to flip open the lid of a Zippo when I said, voice obscured from the gas mask, “Don’tcha know that shit’ll kill you?”

Renal turned her head slightly and began screaming. I shoved her inside the apartment, knocking the cigarette out of her mouth and the lighter out of her hands. She tripped on the door guide and fell backward into the room.

I pulled the safety latch from the tear gas canister and threw it past Renal. I pulled the patio door shut and locked it.

“What the hell’s going on?!” a hoarse feminine voice cried from the bathroom. Jordache Finkelstein emerged, completely nude.

Clement Okon and La Madera Verde—who had fresh bruises all over his body and several bandaged cuts that probably should have been redressed— sat next to each other on the edge of their bed in boxer shorts. Covering the bed like a mattress were piles of cash.

The four began to cough and gag as the gas permeated the room.

“Who…are…” Clement Okon passed out, clutching his throat and collapsing onto the floor. I kicked him in the ribs for good measure. Something cracked. I smiled.

“McDürchstein,” La Madera Verde coughed.

“I’m glad you know it’s me,” I said. “A man should always know his killer.”

“What did you say?” he gasped. “The mask—I hear nothing!”

“I said—”

I pulled out the sawed-off and shoved it into La Madera Verde’s face.

“Tell me who she is!” I demanded, gesturing to an unconscious Renal Rojas.

“A dimestore tramp,” La Madera Verde muttered. “My great-granddaughter. Your publicist’s niece.”

“So she…”

“She is not tu niña. She is…nothing to you. We just wanted money. The industry…it’s not what it used to be. I do not want to be cutting corners, but you—”

“I should kill you,” I said.

“What?”

“I should kill you,” I repeated, slower and more articulately.

“I have waited for the day for many years.”

He closed his eyes, ready to take it. At that moment, he looked so pathetic—

The world tumbled aside for a moment, and by the time I knew what had happened I realized I was on the floor with a lithe, warm weight on top of me.

Renal.

“Don’t!” she gasped. “Please!”

I gazed into her eyes, and even though I knew she was a fraud, I also knew that she was more of a daughter than I deserved.

“I always loved you, Renal,” I whispered.

She looked confused, like she couldn’t understand me, and then I slammed the butt of the sawed-off against her chin. Her head knocked back and hit the dresser. I turned back toward the bed—

—and La Madera Verde was gone.

I stuffed the oversized pockets of the coat with as many of the bills as I could, then rushed out through the open patio door.

I looked left, right, straight ahead—I didn’t see Madera. Where could he have gone, a frail old man like that?

I felt a sudden pressure on my head, then the world turned gray. Then it disappeared altogether.

I woke in a trunk. Not for the first time, so I knew how to get out without much effort. On the outside, I knew for sure that this was my rental car. The leather coat was bunched in a ball. I unrolled it and felt the pockets. For some reason, they were still overstuffed with money.

My teeth hurt more than anything. I couldn’t imagine how I looked.

It was night, and I was somewhere empty and desolate. Somewhere in the hills.

“I hate this city,” I muttered.

I knew I’d never see any of them again. I knew Renal—if that was even her real name—would never come back. I didn’t have a daughter. My wife was in the hospital. My band was in a shambles.

I had no reason to feel happy. I had no reason to perpetuate Jupiter Starshine Collective.

For the first time in months, I felt like myself again.

I felt Abysmal.