CON TEST: Double Life (6 page)

“
Who was that?” The bulky man asked, as a Woodbridge PD cruiser pulled up onto the scene.

Justice felt inclined to stop. His freedom once again flashed before his eyes. His mind ran queries that he had no answers for.
Why did I come here? Why didn’t I come alone? Hell, why do I even exist on Earth anymore? I could go for the policeman’s gun
, he thought
. I should end it right here in Woodbridge, New Jersey. I go for the officer’s gun, get wrestled down by the Walmart loss prevention, freeing up the policeman to give me a warning shot to the brain
. Justice thought that was a grand plan to execute.

William stopped typing and spun 360-degrees affording a panoramic view of the red and black office décor, themed after the cover of his fourth novel, Get Down or Lay Down. Across from his mirror-topped desk, a red camel-haired sofa filled the corner, below framed posters for his first three novels to the left of the door.

When he was retarded, or not so imaginative to produce a sickening plot twist, he tossed the red and black decorative pillows into a basket and stretched out on the sofa. Often he reclined in the recliner to remain upright. He would inhale and count to ten slowly and then exhale. Breathe and relax, he told himself behind closed eye lids. He fell into a day-dreaming cat nap. A formula that had the occasion for refreshing his mind considerably enough to cure the dreaded, but necessary writer’s block.

His eyes searched the credenza on the right side of the door, where he stocked office supplies. The double doors were open and he scanned reams of different color paper used to easily track the calendar days in his manuscript to assure chronological order. Boxes of red pencils were there to revise his current work on paper.

Floor to ceiling windows stood on two sides of the office affording him a most sought after view of both Wilshire and Lacienega up from the fifth floor. William had the drapes customized. They were extra-long, sweeping the black vinyl floor. They hung from fancy black rods with red devils on the ends. He had the drapes drawn so that he let in the fresh California sunlight. Other times, he had the drapes closed with only the small stained-glass desk lamp as a light source. The yellowish, dim glow cast shadows as if creatures lurked in his office. That worked well when he desired to gauge his devilish side and write something dark and gloomy.

It had been five months since he pitched his latest fiction idea to his agent, Jewel Blacksmith. He had three weeks to meet a deadline with Blacksmith Literary Agency. Being proficient stood at the apex of his list of qualities. He was usually ahead of schedule. With a master’s degree in Creative Writing from UCLA, he knew how to put together twisted plots that commanded admiration. Critics proclaimed that he did everything right. His stories had paid the fare to slip into national conversation. He didn’t allow pictures to be taken of him. His novel jackets were faceless. William Fortune’s race was a hot topic. It was often stated that his novels were so close to the story within the urban ghettos that he had to be Black. His writing evidenced that he may have been White.

Out of a trance, William’s eyes drifted right to his computer monitor. He commanded the computer to print the most recently completed chapter. Later, at home, he planned to litter the pages with enough red marks to mirror a murder scene. Before he stuffed the papers into his briefcase, he looked at the tin UCLA wastebasket. It brimmed with crumpled sheets of paper. He often wrote first drafts in long hand before entering them into his computer as a second draft. He had learned the art to a fine manuscript was in the re-writing process. He emptied the basket and smoothed the papers out and put them in a folder, so that after he published the novel, he could re-read the first drafts like spoofs at the end of a movie DVD. A few seconds passed and he decided to give the pages a chance. He saved his work on his travel drive, and then turned off his computer.

He wanted to belt out a paean, and he hoped that God cured his writer’s block. His novel was three-quarters completed. He was forced to change the ending because the thug’s life who he based the story on hated it. When asked what he hated, the thug simply stated that he would never have made the foolish decisions that William had him make fictionally. Justice had bravely given William the green light to write that account of his great escape from the East Coast exactly the way it happened. He told William not to alter the facts to protect the innocent. Use all names was Justice’s order. William had many avenues to write the perfect salable script, but whichever one he took had to satisfy him.

SIX

G
od had handed William looks that garnered top billing. He had a human-like Frankenstein jawline and neat bushy eyebrows. Most days he down-played his perfection. He had a tidy goatee and green marbles for eyes. He was coated with chocolate imported from the Swiss; an invitation that got him through the doors of A-list parties. Too bad he would never go to one.

Lundin admired him and thought that he was perfect. To him a child’s painting was perfect. Children painted from the heart, not for the next art gallery auction.

William did not grow up able to rant, “Give me this. Give me that.” Both of his parents were in heaven, both succumbed to cancers. He feared that he was next. He had no siblings. No real childhood friends. So, the 3,000-mile trek to Los Angeles was an easy decision. Good thing that he had Lundin, or he would die lonely.

William found parking on Robertson Boulevard and stepped onto the pavement. He merged with all of the big spenders out to charge their credit cards to buy whatever their hands could carry. He and Lundin lived in a loft above a high-end men’s boutique on the extravagant street in West Hollywood. He lived in the green section on the Monopoly game board. A half-mile away was the blue section, and hiring a realtor was the only thing that prevented his move.

Robertson Boulevard was one of many celebrity shopping tracts in Los Angeles, and a haven for celebrities and paparazzi. William had to move to Los Angeles to learn that Bel Air (made famous by The Fresh Prince), West Hollywood (made famous by film industry), Brentwood (made famous by O.J. Simpson), Compton (made famous by Ice Cube), Beverly Hills (made famous by Rodeo Drive), and Inglewood (made famous by the Crips and Bloods) were all cities in Los Angeles County and not neighborhoods in Los Angeles City. However, the hoods sensationalized in black movies and West Coast rapper’s lyrics like Watts and South Central were in the City of Angels.

Within feet of his domicile were specialty shops, art galleries, furniture emporiums, and the renowned Ivey restaurant, all for the rich and famous. On any given day he and his wife sat on their bed in the loft and peered through the window. They ate popcorn as the paparazzi fought for the best spot in the house to catch a perfect—and salable—photo frame of a celebrity who exited the Ivey.

Thank God no one knew that he rented space across the street. A photo of the mastermind that gave the world House Mouse, Theft by Deception and Get Down or Lay Down would be worth six figures. Easy. William knew. He had called several copy editors and offered a photo of William Fortune. The lowest offer was $250,000. He knew that a bid could get up to a million. He was amazed that he managed to keep his identity hidden. The catalyst to his success.

William slipped into his sanctuary and kicked his Ferragamo’s into a corner by the door. He shimmied into moccasins, tossed his blazer on a coat hook, and greeted Lundin with a salacious kiss in the kitchen.

He saw that she made calamari. He looked on the granite counter and saw the flour batter she had dipped the calamari in before frying it. She had plenty spices on the counter from the exquisite spice rack. The kitchen warehoused digital stainless-steel appliances, high tech romantic lighting, and a handsome vision of marble counters. William had acquired taste for dishes from Armenia to Zimbabwe. The refrigerator was stocked with fancy imported meats.

William hugged Lundin so that her chest pressed closely to his and he smelled all of her. Her bold chestnut eyes locked onto his and they read each other’s minds. William ran his arm up her back, under long jet black hair, and snaked his arm along her shoulder. He stared at her soft features and then closed his eyes.

“
What?” She asked, pulling away from him.

“
Just thinking about,” he pulled her closer to him, and continued in her ear, “how you’d look cooking without…” He blindly unbuttoned her blouse until it fell to the floor. “This!”

Her breast jumped out enveloped in a black La Perla bra. William imagined her soft, velvety, caramel backside in identical panties. Lundin was a former Victoria Secret model, which inspired her to be an agent. Lundin was bodacious in a compact fashion. Stand her in front of a 5’10” hour glass, and the clock would vanish.

“
At least one of us had a good day,” she said. She sounded stressed.

This is why I don’t work in an office. Well, I do
.
Just not with people
. “I’ll be having a better day if you were standing there naked in front of me cooking. We can play R. Kelly’s
In the Kitchen
, and you know…,” he said and kissed her.

“
So, I guess you are happy to see me?” She asked, and groped his crotch.

“
Oh, he is. Missed you, too,” William confessed, and kissed her neck three times softly.

“
Well, Blackey, we will see about that later. Won’t we?” she asked, and looked around the kitchen. She saw steam coming off the whole-grain noodles and then pulled away from him.

William walked into the living room and cued Jaime Fox’s
Unpredictable
album to fill the air. He then took a seat on a bar stool that was in front of the kitchen. “How was work?” He asked his wife. He hated that question, but it was required in a marriage.

“
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

E
arly 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.