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February 7, 2008

The Long Con

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 7, 2008 7:52 AM
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You don’t know anything.

I keep repeating that in my head, over and over again.

Jordache Finkelstein said it to me yesterday. “You don’t know anything. We have two reasons for that: first, it gives you plausible deniability if anything goes wrong. Second, you don’t know anything about construction or architecture or the genius of the Condomes Cumplex, except for what I’ve told you. We don’t want interference. We just want money. You won’t hear a peep from us until you receive your first dividends.”

I nodded as I handed her several dozen cashier’s checks, each made out for $4999.99 for tax purposes. “I have no problem with this. It’s a sound investment. I just hope nothing goes wrong.”

As she examined the checks, Jordache licked her lips and smiled ferociously. “It won’t.”

I turned to Renal. “Am I the best dad in the world or what?”

She hugged me tight and gave me a lingering peck on the lips. Finally, she said, “You are.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

“Oh, Dad,” Renal said, slipping herself in the forehead to show me she had just remembered something. “Jordache and I were going to hang out this afternoon. That’s cool, right?”

“Fine.”

She smirked and ran off with Jordache. I watched her go, admiring their rear assets as they went.

I hopped in the minivan and headed back into the Valley. Margo wasn’t coming home until late that night, so I’d finally have a bit of alone time.

The empty apartment raised my suspicions at first. I am not saying it was empty of people—everything I owned had been removed, as if we had been evicted again. I went downstairs to bitch out Frankie, our landlord, because I’d already paid the back rent, and a few days later I coughed up the rent for a full year, so I had no idea why he’d throw all our stuff out.

“Are you kidding me?” Frank spat. “First of all, I’d change the locks and hang a sign on your door. That’s the first message. It takes a hell of a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to move shit out an apartment. I’m not gonna do it unless it’s necessary, and in your case it’s not even close to necessary. You probably just got robbed.”

“Yeah, but why would they take everything? I have nothing valuable at the apartment.”

“I know,” Frankie sighed. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, but fuck, it’s L.A.”

I groaned and called the LAPD. Two hours later, I’d filed a police report and a couple of detectives had swept the area for prints or any signs of life. They found nothing—in fact, they believed the thieves scrubbed the apartment from top to bottom and shampooed the carpet before leaving. They asked some of the neighbors if anyone had seen anything, but nobody had any information. It didn’t surprise me; this apartment building is full of the most vapid, self-absorbed people in a town known for vapid self-absorption.

When the cops left, I decided to spend the night at the Paint Shaker. Because we no longer had our label, I’d set the upstairs offices and one of the conference rooms up as a makeshift living area the last time Margo threw me out. It was actually reasonably nice, and I thought perhaps I could get some work done with nobody around to distract or undermine me.

To my surprise, when I walked through the back door, I found the Paint Shaker barren, as well. Everything—furniture, houseplants, artwork, recording equipment, instruments. They even took my dragon guitar, the bastards.

Another call to the LAPD yielded some irritated Hollywood burglary guys who had already been told about the previous theft.

“Sounds to me like you need to change the locks and figure out who’s holding a grudge,” one of them muttered.

“Thank you for your advice, Detective,” I said politely, then ushered them out the front door.

It had gotten close to time to pick up Margo at the Burbank airport. I knew she wouldn’t be happy about what had happened, so I decided to pick up a new laptop on my way to get her. My debit card was declined.

“Bullshit,” I snapped. “I have a $2000 daily limit, and $50,000 in the bank.”

“Would you like to call your bank?” the apathetic clerk asked.

“They’re closed,” I snapped.

“Yes, but there’s a toll-free line—”

“Just use this!” I threw a credit card at her.

She ran the card; also declined.

“But I have a $5000 limit and haven’t used it in months.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s actually telling me I have to cut it up or keep it, but…well, I’ll let you sort your business out. Sorry.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. It came out whinier than it sounded in my head.

I told her I’d put the laptop back. Margo would not be pleased about having to share a laptop with me, but hey, it’s better than nothing.

I drove the airport. As I circled, waiting for Margo to appear on the sidewalk, that line kept running through my head: You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything.

Finally I saw Margo, waving with so much excitement I was afraid it’d tear her fishnet stockings. I leaped out of the van and helped her with the luggage.

When we got in the car, she said, “Whatsamatter, Girthy? You look a little down in the mouth.”

I sighed. “We have a problem.”