CON TEST: Double Life Read online

  “Not too good.”

  Fuck. Now I have to hear a litany of her work drama.

  “The agency signed a new model, and I was designated to represent him. I only take on clients that I find and sign. The reason I am on this one is because he is a Zuzzio.”

  “What’s your objection to that if you will get the commission on her gigs,” he asked reluctantly. Although he was a writer, and it was required that he knew something about everything. He knew nothing about modeling.

  “We are a modeling agency, Blackey, for starters. Third is LA, too. We—well, I—book some of the most exclusive jobs offered in the business. Today, I was asked to represent a man that could not be the face for an ad for A-bombs. He was only signed because his aunt is the boss. The owner, Judith.”

  “Damn, is he that bad? I see a compliment, if they think that you can get him work,” William said chuckling.

  “It’s not funny, Blackey,” she whined. He pinched his fingers together and then zipped his lips shut. “Even his name is bad. Solomon-Goddamn-Zuzzio!”

  “Is his middle name, Goddamn? That’s a cute spin off of Van-Damn.” He joked.

  “Will!” she said, and stared at him icily.

  “Sorry, Boopsie,” he said and walked toward her. He grabbed her and pulled her close to him. “Lundin, it’s not that bad. It can’t be. And if you feel it’s that bad, quit. At twenty-four. As long as I can write, you will be taken care of. Now cook so that we can go half on a baby.”

  “What if you lose your hands?” She asked and placed his hands on her ass, so that he fully understood what that meant.

  “Recorder. I’ll use my feet to press record.”

  “Your ability to speak?”

  “I’ll use sign language. Stop it! Unless I am brain dead, I will be able to write and make an income.”

  She melted into his arms and was relieved to have a husband like William Fortune. They embraced for a moment before he let her go and fixed their plates. He stepped away from her, and said, “You could always quit.”

  Their conversation lasted through dinner. William rode with her, and listened to her vent. She elevated his belief that writers had it easier than an office gig. After dinner they snuggled on the sofa and sipped red wine. They caught up on episodes of Amazing Race and Bad Girls Club. Later they retired to the loft and went half on that baby.

  SEVEN

  Early the next morning, they dragged themselves out of bed at 6 a.m. They did an expedited tour of the bathroom, and then an a.m. run. They returned and had breakfast—English muffins, egg whites and homemade squeezed orange juice. They showered together, dressed, and William walked Lundin outside to her Buick Rendezvous. They stood and chatted on the curb until they ran blank on words. The perfect picture of a successful married couple. Lundin departed at nine and hoped that she missed rush hour traffic.

  William had research to do and looked forward to going through federal case law for current fraud cases. He watched her truck vanish, and then he traced his steps back into their apartment.

  A set of eyes smiled at William from three blocks away using binoculars.

  * * *

  William had watched the news, and then headed out. It was 10:30 a.m. when William stepped into UCLA’s Hugh & Hazel Darling Law Library. He donned expensive chinos, red Polo shirt, and Gucci loafers. He sat at an elongated oak table, sat his briefcase on top, and glanced out at perfectly manicured campus lawns. The library was empty considering it was finals week. The corner was perfect and unofficially his man cave. Same place, same author time every week.

  He spent countless hours in the corner researching legal procedures and reading trial transcripts to shape his manuscripts. He had spent enough hours in the library to ace the criminal law section of the Bar Exam. Since he was first published and became a consistent, effective novelist, he did not need to frequent the library as much. His fan P.O. Box kept up by Jewel was often under siege with offers from an array of government officials and attorneys from both sides of a trial proceeding. All of them willing to dole out their agencies’ most sacred secret new equipment, gadgets, and techniques. And for what, a listing in the acknowledgment page?

  William walked through the labyrinth library and gathered the books that he needed. He planned to search for flaws that Government agents made prior to an arrest. Mistakes that ultimately lead to the dismissal of a defendant’s charges.

  He told stories about identity theft to warn the public about crimes in a more colorful manner than the six o’clock news. Despite William’s work, banks harshly condemned his novels right to the top of the New York Times Best Sellers List. To no one’s surprise, William called them blue prints for hard working citizens to be less inadvertent with their personal data. He had shown them how simple and rewarding it was for a law abiding America denizen to become ashamed of themselves for having spent 330 hours and $1,400 to regain control over their good name, for their own errors.

  William’s novels conveyed a chilling snapshot of thieves fixated on hacking computers, stealing mail, counterfeiting checks and identification, and forging documents as a job. A job that spawned the Truncated Act, which required merchants to use a series of X’s to safe guard all but the last few digits of a credit card number on a receipt. A job that cost the business community $15,000 per compromised identity. A job that federal statistics indicated stole $53-billion annually from the economy. A job so ruthless that William had cashed in millions in book sales forcing ordinary people to think twice about how careless they were with their excellent identity profile. Thanks to Mr. Fortune, the public had been taught to be as equally interested as bankers and the Government with setting boundaries for criminal cretins. He had shown what the typical fun filled day of an identity thief looked like in black and white. The sight was horrifying enough to prevent consumers from breeding these fakes by protecting their information.

  William’s area of the table was littered with books, notes, and handwritten chapters of his manuscript. He continued to envision visiting Ashley Tomlinson, his former criminal law professor. While not a law student, William was granted permission to take the course. He consulted with Professor Tomlinson for novel plots since.

  He jotted a few case numbers to further investigate through the West Law system, and then closed up his books. He cleaned up his area and then headed to the professor. William could hear the professor laughing wildly at what he planned to ask.

  EIGHT

  “Gone are the days when technology and science had not yet developed and a good criminal trial was based on facts brought before the judge and jury by law abiding civilians who eye-witnessed the actual crime. You fine, young lads will have to play lawyer in a legal game of basketball. To achieve a win, or victory, which is what your media pals will liken it to, rather than an acquittal, you must build a team to rival our beloved Lakers.

  “At point guard will be your private investigator, which has to be as lightning fast with his fact finding as Derek Fisher bringing up the ball. Your shooting guard or forensic scientist should rain uncontested scientific details as precisely and expertly as Kobe Bryant drops shots. The small forward, Ron Artest, good for a nice pick and roll will be your criminal psychologist claiming that your guy did or didn’t—depending on your needs—have the state of mind to have committed these acts. And we all know Ron is the man to throw a psychological loop around the opponent’s throat. Power forward, the deadly Pau Gasol is on deck as the venomous pathologist. He’ll give all the gruesome details of the corpses, after the Celtics have been left for dead once again.”

  That garnered a little laughter, but the professor went on, “And lastly, when you’re prepared to block all of the prosecutorial theories, there is your shot blocker, or alibi, Andrew Bynum.

  “You’ll deal with motions, jury selection, proffer hearings, and different judges every trial. Now that I have introduced you to next week’s topic, I’ll see you next week. Consult your syllabus for reading selections and assignments.�
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  Professor Ashley Tomlinson dismissed his senior Criminal Law class and sat at his desk. He looked up and saw his brightest non-law major student.

  “William Fortune!” He whispered. His baritone voice barely able to pull that off.

  William sat in front of Tomlinson. The beefy professor had the feminine name Ashley, but he was by no means soft. His six-feet-four frame towered over his students. Outwardly, he had an intimidating appearance. He would not squash an ant, though. He would cite some law about protecting ants. He wore crisp razor sharp jeans over his lengthy legs, and snug fitting sweaters showcased his broad shoulders and gut. That was him, Professor Ashley Tomlinson: eighteen years as a consultant to the United States Attorney’s Office in Los Angeles, and a Rolodex that needed a body guard.

  “What’s going on?” Tomlinson asked, before adding, “I’ll be administering the complex motion writing exam in a half, so make it quick, Fortune.”

  “Won’t be more than five minutes,” William said, earnestly. “Here are the hard facts, I want to murder someone—”

  “William Fortune!” Professor Tomlinson loved the first name, last name approach. “Have you lost your mind? You’ll get the death penalty.”

  “How about stealing a corpse?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “Anything using the verb steal or any of its cousins—taking, purloining, borrowing without permission—is illegal. But you knew that.”

  NINE

  Two hours passed and someone commandeered a seat right next to William who was back in the library. He was violated. Someone had invaded his space. He selfishly turned to look at the person, prepared to ask them to move. Of all the seats in this library you want to sit here.

  “What? My version not good enough?” Justice asked. “Have I misled you to date?”

  “Justice, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “This is a library at a public university, is it not? Don’t answer that. I’ve read your proposed manuscript, and I am still unhappy. It sucked. I gave you a perfect storyline, and you want to commercialize it, and you can’t get the ending as I told you it happened,” Justice said, never removing his dark shades or fedora. He went on, “I would never leave a city to go to another city on the run without a fake ID to at least thwart arrest after a routine stop and frisk. Secondly, I am not so pathetic to commit suicide by cop. You know, I am looking at your lame face, and you’re pathetic.”

  “I write fiction for my fan base and Hollywood.”

  “You don’t have a fucking fan base. I do,” Justice said, menacingly.

  “At any rate, Hollywood is who I write for. I write fiction to get the big bucks. You want to remain stealth then you need money. I write to get the money. You and I money, precisely. Please, let me do this.”

  “Let me be frank. You write for me!” Justice smirked, and then spat, “And I thought you were smart. You’re quite dumb. I can turn myself in and write the damn story myself. You’ve checked the Sentencing Guidelines yourself. The punishment will not be that harsh. Five-year tops. I’ve saved enough money from you and my books to live the glamorous life upon my release, too. So you listen here, clown, I gave you a tailor-made ticket onto the A-list, and I’ll have you scratched off faster than Milli Vanilli. I have been a discreet liaison letting you drive the car, but I will put a gun to your temple and kick you the fuck out going 90 miles per. I implore you to write the facts as I gave them to you.”

  “In my opinion, that would be suicide.”

  “This fine university,” Justice began, and then flamboyantly waved his hand in the air, and continued, “did not offer you an opinion with your degree.” He let that sink in and then said, “I’ll look forward to your revisions in a week before Jewel gets it.” He looked at the anger in William’s eyes and asked, “What? A week is not enough? Sure it is, the entire publishing world knows that you, I mean we, work quickly.” Justice said chuckling uncontrollably and stood to leave.

  “You’ll get your story all right. Boy, will you get your story,” William yelled to the back of Justice’s sport jacket, as he popped his collar.

  William gathered the books he took from the shelves. He was approached by a library aide.

  “Excuse me?” She asked, lightly. “Is everything, okay?”

  “Everything is fine,” he told her.

  “I almost thought you were speaking to yourself.”

  “Actor,” William said, smiling. “I was acting out dialogue. Sorry for bothering you,” he said, and hastily bolted from the library.

  TEN

  Later William entered the yellow brick building of a style widely used in the sixties and nodded to the security attendant. He jogged up the staircase to the fifth floor bypassing other busy entrepreneurs. Once in his office, he kicked off his shoes and scanned the wall that housed fire arms. He owned all sorts of rifles and archaic pistols, which accompanied plaques for sharp shooting. He had a four-by-four, one-foot deep aquarium with an assortment of tropical salt water fish suspended from the ceiling. He looked at the fish and then back at the rifles. Thoughts of Justice swimming with the fish in the Pacific Ocean crossed his mind.

  Having stopped at the liquor store, he opened his briefcase and took out the pint of vodka. He cracked it open. Nix a glass. He took it to the head, after he sniffed the top and scorched his nostrils. He leaned back in his chair, and felt like he had taken a hit of crack. This couldn’t be better. He took another refreshing draught, and then began to see doubles. Strangely, his outrage had been washed down to the pit of his stomach. He felt a faux sense of serenity.

  William closed the bottle and thought about his love for his BMW760, his loft, his mini-vacations—hell, he loved his everything. Therefore, he had work to do.

  It was late in the afternoon, so he called his wife. He spent the first half of the conversation urging her to go straight home from work. They could order from California Pizza Kitchen, crack a bottle of Moscato and mix it with coconut Ciroc, and play Wii. Lundin was used to William’s charm. He had poured it on her, but she thought he acted a tad strange.

  “OK, Blackey. The gig is up. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine, Boopsie,” he said, unconvincingly.

  “William!”

  “Okay, I was slammed by the agent today.” He lied.

  “What?” She asked, fearful that he would have a nervous breakdown.

  “It appears that you were right. According to Jewel, she uh…”

  “Spit it out, Will. I have a client on hold.”

  “She thinks that I should let Justice get away. She suggested that the bad guys always go down. She suggested that I write a fiction story. Hence, letting Justice get away.” He let that sink in and then added, “Just like you told me, too.”

  “So what are you going to do? Why’d she say that?”

  That a girl, he thought. He was glad that she did not tell him that she told him so. “American bankers and DA’s would be livid if I let this cunning thief get away, proving them incompetent.”

  “The negative energy would drive sales, Blackey.”

  “That’s exactly what Jewel said,” he told her, stretching out his lie. “Must be women’s intuition.”

  “No, it’s about the American dollar always,” she told him. “Do the right thing.”

  “And what might that be,” he asked, hesitantly.

  “Follow your heart. Blackey, I have to go. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Boopsie,” he whispered, and placed the receiver on the hook.

  William stared at the words on the computer screen and repeated her words. Follow your heart. He shut down his computer, packed up his briefcase, and knew that the next morning he would follow his heart.

  ELEVEN

  Los Angeles had never been high on Justice’s list of clubbing until the wee hours of the night. Most restaurants closed shortly after they had finalized the last tab. The bars were lively until 2 a.m. Most of them provided
dance floors that allowed customers to boogie and mingle, because once “last call” was yelled, there was no club to dash to and party until 6 a.m. like New York, Miami, or Atlanta. Exclude hotels and LA had the driest downtown amongst the largest United States cities. So overrated.

  The downtown Standard Hotel had a happening rooftop cocktail lounge and Justice was there enjoying a screwdriver. The padded red seats and carpet casted a loving feel. Spawned lust. The DJ spun the latest tunes from all music genres. The perfect afternoon air worked well to calm him after his encounter with William. On his second drink, the elevator opened, and his lunch date arrived.

  Nyoka LaCroix stepped off the elevator and quieted the mid-afternoon men having business drinks. She was 48, but easily mistaken for mid-late twenties. She had strong features from Louisiana, with a touch of French, which was where she received her last name. Long tan legs for days, the darkest eyes, and implants. Her cinnamon-colored hair was snatched into a perfect chignon that wrapped into a puffy bun. She donned a sexy black pant suit, white shirt and black slim tie. Her jacket was buttoned to discreetly shield men from eyeballing her figure and pistol at her side.

  “You look…nice,” Justice said, holding his hand out to shake hers.

  She let the tips of her fingers touch his and replied, “Thanks. You’re looking…” She let the statement hang in the air, as he did; only she would never describe him.

  She followed him to the edge of the lounge and they both looked out into the bare LA skyline. They spat small talk for several minutes before they decided to cut the bullshit. Their meeting was strictly business despite their occasional romp. She was a veteran Secret Service Agent. During Bush’s second term, she served as the first daughter’s college sentry.