Clash of the Figments - Chapter 6

Morning came to the Prestwick house.  I awoke temporarily insane, confused by my surroundings.  Gradually, the Miami Vice color scheme of the bedroom, the smell of breakfast hot dogs on the stove, and Priscilla’s singing from the kitchen reminded me of where I was.  Hell Bent for Leather.  Judas Priest.  What she was singing.  Metalheads, go figure. 

I roused myself and shook vigorously.  Got dressed and put on my shoulder holster.  Good place for a gun.  Mine was a big long barreled job, custom made.  Looked very similar to a .357 until you noticed that it had a barrel big enough to hide a roll of quarters.  The guy I bought it from had told me it was a guaranteed “one shot stop”. 

Slight understatement.  It would blow the head off a rhino.  Don’t ask; just trust me on that. 

The fire alarm started blaring.  Breakfast was ready.  I padded off to the kitchen. 

Simon was on the back porch, looking at the Wall Street Journal.  Somehow I had avoided ever reading that particular paper in my thirty-some-odd years.  No reason I could see to break a good streak. 

Jimmy was still sleeping on the couch.  He talked a lot in his sleep.  Apparently he was getting ready for a dreamy punch out.  His fists were clenched.  “Hey, man you’re not a local,”  he said.  Oh, the demons that surfers endured.  The clock read a little after ten o’clock.  Jimmy had a few more waves to catch before he would join us. 

I went in the kitchen and loaded up a plate with some chow.  Priscilla eyed me suspiciously, leaning against the counter, holding a cup of tea in front of her with both hands. 

“Touch me and I’ll scratch your eyes out,”  she said. 

I didn’t reply.  Just filled a glass with some OJ and headed out to join Simon, safe in the knowledge that my vision wasn’t in any immediate jeopardy. 

“I didn’t know your wife was Cajun,”  I said, taking a seat beside him. 

“It’s not blackened.  It’s burnt.”  His eyes never left the paper. 

“Oh.” 

“I’m sorry about last night.  Making such a big stink and all.  It just gets frustrating, you know?” 

“Yeah.”  I knew. 

“It just gets to me sometimes.  I mean, I don’t have a problem being the figment of somebody’s imagination, but it just bothers me sometimes to know that everything I say, everything I do, and everywhere I go is subject to the whims of somebody else.  It’s just so .  .  .  controlled.” 

“Yeah.”  It was. 

“I don’t know.  I guess I just thought it might be a little easier to stomach if I felt that what I was doing was really something important.  Something great.” 

“Yeah.”  It would. 

We sat in silence for a while, Simon reading his paper, me chipping away at my breakfast. 

“But on the bright side,”  I said at last, “Nobody in a Jack London novel ever got to blow spit bubbles.  And, if memory serves, there’s not a Kung Fu fight in anything Shakespeare ever wrote.” 

“Good points.  I know, I know, I’ve got nothing to be upset about.  This is a good gig.  Well, good enough.  I think we can really work with this spy moose thing.  Which reminds me, when are going to get moving?” 

“Are we back in character now?”  I asked. 

“Hell yeah.  C’mon, let’s go get Number 12 and blow this Popsicle stand.” 

We pulled out of Simon’s driveway just after noon.  Beautiful day.  Clear skies, light breeze, 85 degrees.  Strange weather pattern over the last 12 hours but I wasn’t complaining.  Jimmy was awake but had decided to go surfing. 

“So, where do we start?”  Simon asked. 

“Need to get some money.  For expenses,”  I said.  “Figured we’d go buy some cars.” 

Simon grimaced.  “Ahhh, man.  Do we have to?  It’s so embarrassing.” 

“No choice.  I didn’t get advance money,”  I said.  “Don’t worry though, it won’t take too long.  We’ll be done before dinner.” 

I pulled into the nearest car dealership – Chevrolet – and went to work.  First we traded in the Impala on a new Tahoe.  Pocketed the $2,500 rebate money and hit the road again.  Next stop was a Dodge dealer around the corner.  Traded in the Tahoe on a new Intrepid and walked off with another $3,500 cash back.  I always wanted cab forward technology and I had to admit I was impressed, at least for the five minutes that it took to reach the next car lot.  This one sold Toyotas. 

The whole thing was ridiculously easy, really.  Buy, get rebate, trade in, buy another, get another rebate.  The only hassle was dealing with the dealers.  But they never gave us a hard time because we usually bought some of the more expensive cars, didn’t balk at their initial asking price, and agreed to whatever interest rate they quoted.  We just made sure there was a rebate.  That was the trick. 

By sundown we had hit every single dealership in Wilmington and surrounding areas.  My last stop was back at the Chevy dealer that we had started with.  We were driving a high end Mercedes by this time.  I traded it in for next to nothing and got the Impala back plus the balance of the trade for the Mercedes, an additional $23,000.  They were so thrilled at getting a brand new Mercedes at half its list price and unloading the Impala at the same time I think they shit their pants.  Simon and I barreled out of the lot with a cloud of smoke and a grand total of just over $275,000 in our pocket. 

I always wondered why more people didn’t do this.  Just don’t like cars the way I do I guess.  The real beauty of the whole thing is that all of the dealerships wind up invoicing each other for the cars that were bought and traded in, each one charging the next in a chain reaction that ends up back at the beginning, forming a vicious payment circle.  They’d be busy for weeks trying to figure out what the hell happened. 

Okay, okay, I said it was easy, I didn’t say it was legal. 

We drove back down to the beach where we had dropped Jimmy off earlier.  We saw the Beach Patrol and figured that’s where we’d find our man.  Jimmy was pretty mellow, but he usually got arrested at least once whenever he went surfing.  A most territorial lad when it came to waves.  Luckily, they hadn’t cuffed him yet and Simon and I were able to assure the bike cops that we would keep Jimmy safely away from the general public. 

Simon threw his board in the trunk and I helped Jimmy unravel himself from the tangle of fishing line wrapped around his body. 

“Surfing the pier again?”  I asked. 

“Yeah, dude.” 

“Nasty gash here,”  I said, pulling a good size treble hook from his calf. 

“Yeah, that one hurt.  Dude started reeling it in right in front of me.” 

“You mean you saw it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you ran right into it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” 

“Maybe.  But it was a good wave.  I couldn’t just leave it.” 

“I worry about you Jimmy.  I really do.” 

We went back to Simon’s house to grab something to eat and pack up our things.  Priscilla had done us the favor of not bothering to cook any dinner.  I’m not being sarcastic.  It really was nice of her.  Simon headed to his room to pack while me and Jimmy threw our stuff back in the Impala.  Then we headed off to the kitchen to make some dinner. 

I made some PBJ’s for me and Jimmy since he had hard time with recipes that included more than two ingredients.  While I lathered up the bread, he took the time to find a tape measure to check the length of the cut on his calf.  Jimmy had a thing about scar size and kept a detailed record of all damage done to his body.  Several trees had so far given their lives for this documentation. 

Priscilla came in and sat down at the table.  Just for fun I gave her a smile and she shot back a look that made my lips bleed.  Jimmy took no notice.  Didn’t realize the temperature in the room had dropped 10 degrees.  But then again he was used to cool.  I said earlier that Priscilla hated our guts.  I guess to be more accurate, she hated mine.  Jimmy didn’t really bother her.  Probably because he didn’t complain about her cooking. 

“Ow,”  she said, looking at Jimmy.  “That’s a big cut.  Does it hurt?” 

“Yeah.  A little,”  Jimmy replied. 

“What are you doing, measuring it?”  she asked. 

“Yeah.  I keep track of how big my scars are.  I measure all of the wounds I get.” 

“Huh.  From the looks of things you must be pretty good at doing that by now,”  she said.  “Just do me a favor and don’t give the tape to your friend over there.  I don’t need him trying something juvenile like measuring my butt with it.” 

“Oh, he couldn’t do that anyway,”  Jimmy said.  “It’s only a 10 foot tape.” 

He went back to measuring his cut, the picture of innocence.  Priscilla looked at me in a non-smiling way. 

“What?”  I said. 

“Not a sound,”  she said.  “Not one peep.” 

I almost made it out of the kitchen before the giggles hit and I vaguely remember a heavy glass object impacting the wall behind my head as I ducked into the hall.  By the time I got to the front door I was laughing so hard I blew snot all over my hand. 

I decided it would be best to wait at the car until we were ready to leave. 

Next Week:  Chapter 7

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 5

I’d forgotten about Pricilla.  She was Simon’s wife.  She opened the door when we knocked.  She was from some rich family with old money.  She had gone to the same schools as Simon.  She really hated our guts. 

“Hi Pricilla,”  I said, feigning pleasure at seeing her again.  I noticed Pricilla didn’t bother feigning back.  So much for social protocol.  “Simon home?” 

“If I tell you he’s not will you go away?” 

“Nope.  We’ll just come inside and wait.” 

“What if he’s in Europe?” 

“We’ll make ourselves comfortable.” 

She glared at me for a moment.  “Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you,”  she said.  It wasn’t a question.  A look of disgusted resignation came over her.  “Well, get inside then.”  She turned and walked away without waiting.  I would’ve checked out her ass but she was, after all, Simon’s old lady.  Kind of gave me the willies. 

Me and Jimmy entered the house and kicked the caked up snow off of our boots.  Good thing all they had in the foyer was one of those Persian carpets.  Maybe Simon wasn’t doing so well financially if he couldn’t afford an American made rug.  I also found it odd that there would be snow in Wilmington this time of year.  Or any time of year for that matter.  I was about to ask Jimmy where the hell we had gotten boots from when Simon walked in. 

“Hello Dick,”  he said.  “Jimmy.”  Simon was a little shorter than me.  Sandy hair, hazel eyes.  Shopped at the Gap.  Starting to get a little pudge overlapping his belt I noticed.  Not much, just a start. 

“Good to see you Simon,”  I said. 

“Hey dude,”  Jimmy said meekly. 

“I figured you’d be coming to see me any time now,”  Simon said.  “Come on into the study.  Let’s hear what you’re into this time.” 

“Looking good yourself, Simon,”  Jimmy said.  He had been rehearsing responses in the car for the last 15 minutes.  Wasn’t hitting his cues perfectly.  Didn’t matter, Simon was already out of the room. 

We settled into the study and, once again, I related the story of my encounter with one Mr.  Jackson Burroughs.  I finished and sat back in my chair, satisfied that the impact of this particular assignment was weighing in heavily on Simon.  He stared at me for a full five minutes.  I sat still but ready, coiled to spring into action should another  Kung Fu fight be necessary.  Jimmy was apparently also thinking about the episode at his home earlier in the day.  He dozed only fitfully. 

“Okay.  Wait, wait.  Wait a minute,”  Simon said, holding his hands in the air.  “Let’s not go any further here.” 

“Why, what’s the matter?”  I asked. 

“I’m not doing a damn thing until I see the script,”  he said. 

“The what?” 

“Script.  I want to see the manuscript.” 

“Oh come on, Simon,”  I said.  “Don’t start up with this again.  Would I be here if it wasn’t good?” 

Apparently I could have been.  Simon didn’t say a word.  Just held out his hand.  Waiting. 

“Ahhh, shit,”  I said.  “You are such a pain in the ass.”  But I opened my briefcase and handed it over.  “Why do you always have to make such a stink over everything?” 

“Because I’m not officially under contract yet and I owe it to myself to check and see what this is all about.  If you were smart you’d have done the same.  Too late for you, but not for me.” 

With that, he sat back and started reading.  I waited impatiently, tapping my fingers, tapping my foot, counting to one thousand out loud, just trying my best to be as annoying as possible.  Jimmy was sleeping more soundly now.  He had a line of drool running down his check. 

“This is it?”  Simon said as he finished.  “This is all there is?” 

“Yeah, that’s it.  What’s the problem?”  I said. 

“What’s the problem?  What’s the problem?  There’s only four chapters here and part of the fifth.  Where’s the rest?” 

“There isn’t any more yet.” 

“Nothing?  Nothing at all?  Not a rough draft, a chapter summary?  Not even an outline?” 

“This guy doesn’t work like that.  He – “ 

“Look, Dick, I know you mean well, and I’d like to help you, I really would.  But I’ve got a wife and four kids to support now.  I need better material than this.” 

“You don’t have any kids, Simon.” 

“Okay, that part was a lie.  But the rest is true.  I’ve got loftier goals than this author will ever be able to push me to.” 

“Dammit, Simon.  You’ve been in some of the dumbest plots ever to hit paper.  Don’t try that shit with me.” 

“Exactly my point,”  he said, leaning in and pointing his finger at me.  “I’m tired of playing bit parts in second rate adventure stories that only come out in paperback.  I’m better than that.  A good story.  That’s all I want.  Is that asking for too much?  I don’t think so.  I mean, I’m not expecting to be in a Faulkner or a Hemmingway or even a Michener, too late for that.  But damn it, a Clancy shouldn’t be that difficult.  What the hell, I’m even willing to get my arms and legs hacked off to get into a Stephen King.  I’m talented enough to do that.  But oh no, here I am in yet another unprintable schmuckfest of literary crap.  I mean, this story sucks.  Spy Moose my ass.”  Simon shook his head and rubbed his temples as if in pain. 

“Oh chill out,”  I said.  “I’ve been in worse gigs than this.  We can salvage it.  We just need to make a few adjustments maybe, that’s all.” 

“We need Heather Locklear is what we need,”  Jimmy said suddenly. 

“Well that’s not an option we have at the moment,”  I said. 

“Heather Locklear?”  Simon asked, “And what in the world would Heather Locklear do for us?” 

“What, are you nuts?”  Jimmy said, looking at Simon’s big old pizza head in disbelief.  “Heather’s like...like Mrs.  Goodwrench.  She can fix anything.  “Melrose Place?  Wayne’s World II?  Spin City?  Any of this ring a bell?  Have you been dead for the past decade?” 

“Okay, okay, knock it off,”  I said.  “Granted, Heather would be a big plus, but we’re running on a low budget so it’s out of the question.  Why don’t we direct our thoughts to something that we can do, rather than wasting all day on pipe dreams, hmmm?” 

“I guess you’re right,”  Jimmy admitted. 

“Agreed,”  said Simon. 

“Now,”  I continued, “If we do change anything up to this point the first four chapters may have to be revised.  I agree, the plot is suspect.  But I don’t think we can trust the author to do any major rewrites at this point and still have us making forward progress.  He’s obviously an amateur and his editing skills have to be considered as such.  So we’ll have to just accept what is already done and make the best of it from this point on.” 

“Why should we worry about his editing skills?  Isn’t that what a publishing house is for?”  Jimmy asked. 

“What publishing house?  We’re talking small press at best.  Limited resources.  Won’t happen.  Trust me.”  Simon informed us. 

“So we do nothing?  Nothing at all?”  Jimmy asked. 

“  I really don’t think we can,”  I said.  “And we’ve all been introduced so there’s no backing out now, Simon.” 

“Next time I see my agent I’m gonna shove a toaster up his ass,”  Simon said. 

“Maybe not the best career move, but that’s your choice,”  I replied.  The rain continued to batter against the window panes, painting a gloomy mood that echoed our feelings about the current predicament. 

“Look,”  I said finally, “we’re all good actors.  I think if we pool our talents – “ 

“What about him?”  Simon said pointing at Jimmy.  “He’s a talented actor?  He’s so burned out you shake his head it sounds like a maraca, brain cells bouncing around in there.” 

Jimmy looked hurt.  And a little defensive.  “Hey, man, I’ve had good gigs before.  I’ve been a cop, a homosexual dwarf, a pregnant cat, a schizophrenic superhero – “ 

“Does this author even know how to spell ‘schizophrenic’?”  Simon asked rhetorically. 

We all looked to see. 

“Yeah, I think he does,”  I said.  “’Rhetorically’ too.” 

“Still .  .  .  I don’t think Jimmy’s strong enough to pull his weight,”  Simon continued.  “What else have you done?” 

“Well, I already told you my big roles,”  Jimmy said gloomily.  “That’s it basically.  ‘Cept for that wizard thing.” 

“What “wizard thing?” 

“Oh, you probably never heard of it.  Way back when I was starting out.  Before I got into sniffing glue, I played a wizard in a little fantasy story.  Big tall old guy named Gandalf.” 

Simon and I both sat in stunned silence.  My jaw dropped down so far I got carpet burns. 

“You were in a Tolkien?”  Simon asked softly. 

“Tolkien, yeah!  That’s the dude’s name!  Man, that’s been keeping me up at night, you just don’t know.” 

“I don’t believe it.  You were Gandalf.  That’s got me beat.  Man, you were really good,”  I said. 

“Yeah,”  Jimmy said.  “I was pretty good, now that you mention it.  That book was probably the highlight of my career.  Wish I could remember what it was called.” 

“Book?”  Simon exclaimed, “Man, you were in a trilogy!  Lord of the Rings is still selling.  It’s a movie, a video game; it’s all over the place!” 

“Trilogy?  You mean, like, three books?  Whoa.  I must have started sniffing glue sooner than I thought.” 

“What do you think about Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn?”  I asked Simon. 

“He’s good,”  Simon replied. 

“Yeah, I think so too.  But I wasn’t too sure about him at first.” 

“Me neither.  But by the time Boromir got killed I had kind of warmed up to him” 

“Yeah, me too.  Boromir went down hard; three arrows.  Thick arrows.” 

“They were some nasty looking arrows too.” 

“But then Aragorn whacked off that dude’s head.” 

“Well deserved, if you ask me.” 

“Wmmrerglumdmflml”, said Pricilla. 

“Hey,”  I said, “Who tied up Pricilla and stuffed a gag in her mouth?  For that matter, how long has she been here?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about her.  She’s got some weird habits,”  Simon said, looking back at Jimmy.  “Damn.  Gandalf.  Damn!” 

“So that’s good right?”  Jimmy said.  “We can keep going with the story, right?” 

“Ah, what the hell,”  Simon said.  “Why not?” 

“Yeah,”  Jimmy continued, “maybe this will turn into a cult thing too.  Kind of a new Lord of the Rings for the 80’s.” 

“We’re a tad past the 80’s Jimmy,”  I said. 

“Really?  Whoa.  That would explain a lot.” 

“So, you in Simon?”  I asked. 

“Yeah, I’m in.” 

“Good.  Now maybe we can start actually doing something,”  I said. 

I leaned back in my chair and took a long pull from my cigarette.  When the hell do I keep lighting these things?  No matter.  All was well now.  Simon was in.  Jimmy was in.  Pricilla was laying on the floor, hardly struggling against her bonds anymore.  Simon was right, she was a weird chick. 

We were a sly team.  And we were ready to roll.  First thing in the morning the hunt was on.  The silence in the room told me that we were all thinking the same thing. 

“I’m hungry,”  Jimmy said.  “You got any Little Debbies?” 

Next Week - Chapter 6

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 4

In the car, cruising up I-95.  Top down, sun shining.  My trench coat was hot as hell.  Me and Jimmy were heading North to pick up our third and final team member.  The engine on the old Impala wasn’t running in top form.  That plus the three surfboards sticking out of the trunk playing parachute were keeping us well under the speed limit. 

In addition to the surfboards, Jimmy’s “things”  consisted of spare ankle cords, a roll of sex wax, three bottles of Hawaiian Tropic (SPF-2), two pairs of cutoff jeans, a couple of T-shirts, his electric guitar and amp, and a Gameboy. 

“Where we going, Dick?”  He remembered my name.  I was touched. 

“Going to run up to Wilmington.  Pick up Simon.” 

“Prestwick?” 

“Yeah.  He’s going to be working with us.” 

“Does he know that?” 

“Nope.” 

“Oh.”  Jimmy looked out at the passing trees.  “He’s not gonna like you volunteering him again.” 

“Don’t worry about Simon.  I’ll talk him into it.” 

“Yeah, well.  You know, Simon doesn’t like me very much.  Do we have to get him?” 

“Yeah we do.  And don’t worry.  Simon likes you just fine.” 

“No he don’t.  He calls me that number thing.” 

Jimmy was right.  Simon didn’t care for him much.  Simon was at one end of the educational spectrum while Jimmy was at the other.  A dollar says you can guess who was at which end.  ‘That number thing’ was Simon’s way of poking fun at Jimmy.  He sometimes called him ‘Number 12’.  It started when we were eating at a Tai restaurant one night.  Jimmy had said something stupid (big surprise there) and Simon told him that most of the food on the menu was more intelligent than he was.  At this particular restaurant you ordered your meals by number.  Jimmy had ordered number ‘12.’

“He probably forgot all about that.  Besides,”  I said, trying cheer him up a little, “Wilmington’s on the coast.” 

“Yeah?  Okay.  That’s cool.”  He seemed a little better.  “Yeah.  Okay,”  he said again.  Personal affirmation.  “Can we go a little faster then?” 

“We’re topped out, Jimbo.” 

“Really?  I thought this big old thing had a V-8.” 

“It does, but one of the “V’s”  isn’t working real good at the moment.” 

“Oh.”  Jimmy the conversationalist.  “That’s okay, I like riding in cars.  I’m pretty good at it.” 

“Yes you are, my friend.” 

“I like watching things too,”  he added. 

“Lots of good things to watch while you ride in a car.” 

“Yeah.” 

We rode in silence for a while.  Jimmy ate some Fritos and then dozed off.  Gave me some time to think.  Jimmy and Simon didn’t get along too well but both were crucial to my plans.  Okay, that’s a lie.  Simon was crucial.  Jimmy just needed something to do.  But he was also my friend.  Having him along would bring some balance to Simon’s extremely intelligent but obnoxious personality.  Jimmy would also be a good sounding board.  And, if we ran into someone with a gun, he would reduce my odds of getting shot by another 17% than if I had only one partner.  Cold reality.  But it was a cold world.  Well, except in Florida anyway. 

We crossed the South Carolina border and almost immediately passed what was undoubtedly the best deal on fireworks ever offered.  Made me think of Simon.  Nothing to do with fireworks.  Just that Simon had been wearing a yellow shirt the last time I saw him.  Bright yellow.  Just like the fireworks sign. 

Simon was a square peg.  As I’ve said before, a very smart man.  Went to school up North in one of those places covered with vines.  Harvard, or Yale, or Pepsodent;  can’t remember which.  Maybe all four. 

Maybe I’ll grow a goatee.  Give me an edgy look. 

Anyway, Simon was pretty level headed.  He was an asshole, but that was something I could live with since he won the intelligence battle between me and Jimmy hands down.  Had an IQ that I figured had to be way up there in the double digits. 

I met Simon when I was working part time at a Dairy Queen a few years back.  Investigation business hadn’t been exactly brisk then either.  I went into work one night and Simon was in the back kitchen staring at the water as it washed down the drain from the running tap.  I asked him what he was doing and he said he was “studying the effects of erosion in order to develop a theory which may provide a possible alternative to carbon dating”. 

I told him that I meant what was he doing here;  in the back of the DQ.  He didn’t work there.  Anyway, to make a long story short, we got to talking and before you know it we struck a bond.  I also got fired for fucking off in the kitchen for three hours.  The breaks, I guess.  Simon apologized about getting me fired but told me that if I ever got tired of being a private investigator I had a promising career just waiting for me in the personal petroleum distribution industry.  It’s good to know you have that kind of safety net. 

Simon always wore shoes because he had a couple of extra toes.  This was the only thing that he was really sensitive about and he tried hard to act like it wasn’t a handicap.  Because he wanted to be treated like any other person, I always did my best to respect his wishes, though in truth this did create problems on occasion; especially when we performed certain field operations (like sunbathing) which inevitable led to his being left to guard some cheap hotel room, often for days at a time.  Overall, Jimmy and I treated him just like one of the guys, and, aside from some good natured ribbing from time to time, made no mention of his abnormality (we did, however, occasionally laugh like hell about it when he wasn’t around; we’re sensitive that way). 

Although he was a pain in the ass, Simon was helpful and we had worked well together in the past.  I don’t think he really liked detective work and I know it rankled him to play second fiddle to myself.  But he’d always accepted when I needed him in the past.  Partly because he was my friend.  Partly because he knew I’d beat the shit out of him if he didn’t.  Like I said, cold reality.  Ain’t had my ass kicked by a pen yet. 

We hit Wilmington around 10 that night.  Would’ve made it sooner but we stopped at South of the Border to buy some authentic Mexican souvenirs.  Hey, who can resist all those signs? 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 5

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 3

Never liked the beach much.  Not a good home for a trench coat. 

I hadn’t seen Jimmy in a while but I knew he’d still be there.  Never strayed too far from the water for any amount of time.  Last I had seen him, he was living in a rented house in Daytona a couple of blocks back from the water.  I worried about that because it meant that he had to cross the street to reach the surf.  Nothing bad about Jimmy, but I’ve seen roadkill that had more common sense around traffic than him. 

Jimmy and me went way back.  Used to steal hubcaps together in high school.  I grew up and went to college.  Jimmy grew up and, well, kept stealing hubcaps.  Probably would’ve wound up a career criminal were it not for a little thing called aluminum rims.  Jimmy never could figure out how to steal those and as hubcaps phased out, so did Jimmy’s career as a thief. 

To pass time after that he started a rock band called Smash the Infants.  You’d be pretty safe in assuming that you wouldn’t hear many STI tunes on your average easy listening station.  But they were harmless.  Just kids who knew how to really annoy the hell out of everyone.  The band broke up years ago and Jimmy never really did much after that.  Except surf.  And help me out from time to time. 

I’ve never been able to put a finger on what made Jimmy tick.  In fact, further explanation at this point would probably prove to be fruitless.  Suffice to say that Jimmy was a living example of the classic inner struggle of intellectual well-being pitted against the respondent bipolar delusions of psychotic terminal stress as physically manifested in both sub-linear quadrants of the upper cerebral cortex. 

He was fluent in one language and had heard portions of at least three others, a couple of which he may have even been able to identify if given a hint and a few guesses.  He rarely wore underwear, and when he did, it was always something unusual, often with a farm animal motif. 

I pulled up to his house around 3 o’clock.  What Jimmy would refer to as “noon-ish”.  The yard looked as if it hadn’t been mown in weeks.  A VW bus that had seen better days sat in the weeds, with two spare engines baking in the sun on the ground around it, both missing what appeared to be some crucial parts.  Trash cans on the side of the house were empty, which meant that all of beer cans and pizza boxes were still inside. 

No doubt.  He still lived here. 

I left my keys in the car and walked up to the porch.  I never worried about car theft.  Anyone who stole Dick Lassiter’s wheels was in for a world of hurt.  Besides, not a big market for 72’ Impalas. 

The front door was open so I let myself in.  Jimmy was curled up on the couch, snoring softly.  To look at him, you might figure that he was the kind of guy who often got lost in his own home and wound up peeing in the kitchen sink by mistake.  To know him was to confirm that. 

I took off my shoe and clocked him in the head with it.  This was fairly standard procedure.  Jimmy lifted his head and tried to raise himself to one elbow but lost his balance and slid over the side of the couch, all in one graceful movement.  He landed on the floor with a gentle thud. 

“Wha..?”  he said, looking around the room dazed. 

“Wake up Jimmy, I need you.  Preferably with a pulse,”  I said. 

Jimmy groped under the couch and found his sunglasses.  After putting them on he surveyed the room again. 

“Are you the pizza guy?”  he said, looking in my general direction.  “How much do I owe you?” 

“Put a cork in it Jimmy.  It’s me.  Dick.” 

Jimmy looked around the floor, presumably in an attempt to find a cork. 

“Dick?  Whoa, shit.  Hey man!  What’s up?  What are you doing here?” 

Jimmy staggered to his feet and gave me what I presume is a cool surfer hug.  Hugs between grown men should be illegal.  Jimmy didn’t have a problem with it though. 

“Got some business.  Need some backup.  Thought you might be interested,”  I said. 

“Yeah?  Cool.  Count me in, dude.” 

“I haven’t even told you what it is.” 

“Well, you know .  .  .  hey, whatever man.  That’s cool too.” 

Jimmy’s life knew no warmth. 

“Sit down, I’ll get you a beer,”  I said. 

Jimmy’s kitchen would give Martha Stewart cardiac arrest.  Keeping the floor conveniently covered with trash prevented the need to sweep.  There was a urine soaked TV in the sink instead of dirty dishes.  Jimmy didn’t have dishes.  All eating and drinking was performed with the assistance of plastic, paper, and Styrofoam.  Saved on Ajax. 

The fridge held three cases of Schlitz and a phone book.  Jimmy liked Schlitz because he thought it was imported.  I grabbed two, waded back to the other room, and threw one at him.  He caught it on a one hop.  We popped tops and drank, Jimmy after waiting momentarily for the geyser of foam to subside to a slow trickle. 

“So,”  he said.  “How are the kids?” 

“I don’t have kids, Jimmy.” 

“Oh.”  Pause.  “Wife?” 

“Nope.” 

“Oh.” 

An uncomfortable silence closed in, so thick that for a moment we couldn’t see each other. 

“Um, how about those Bears, huh?”  Jimmy asked hopefully. 

“Jimmy, let’s cut to the chase here, okay?  I’m alive, you’re alive, and I need your help on an assignment of global importance.”  Just to make sure I wasn’t wrong I asked, “You are alive, aren’t you?” 

He checked for a pulse.  “Yeah, dude.” 

“Okay, here’s the deal .  .  .”  I sat down on a foldable lawn chair and filled him in on my surprise visit from Mr. Jackson Burroughs that morning, paying particular care to go over all of the important parts at least twice.  After half an hour I finished and leaned back.  “So, what do you say?  You in?” 

“Let me see if I got this straight.  All we gotta do is find this Burroughs character and let the KGB know where he is and we get some free cereal?  Nothing else?” 

“No Jimmy, we find the Moose.” 

“Moose?  What moose?” 

“Nevermind.  Just grab some things for an extended trip and meet me out front.” 

“Okay, dude,”  Jimmy said.  “You know, I’m ready for a change anyway.  The surf around here just ain’t what it used to be you know?  Pacific’s dead.  Tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking about moving out to the East Coast for a while.  Check out the surf there.” 

“Jimmy,”  I sighed, “  this is Daytona Beach.  Florida.” 

“What?” 

“You’ve been living on the East Coast for six years.” 

“Whoa.”  Bless his heart.  He looked so lost.  “That would explain a lot.” 

Suddenly, the door burst open and four mean looking guys burst in.  None wore shirts.  All of them had that “badass”  look about them.  They stared at me and Jimmy menacingly. 

“Friends of yours, Jimmy?” 

“Nah, shoulder hoppers.” 

The room erupted in motion and we had a big Kung Fu fight right there in the living room.  When we finished beating up the shirtless ones, I nodded to Jimmy and walked out the front door. 

I leaned on the hood of my car and lit a cigarette while I waited for Jimmy to pack.  I had an eerie sense of déjà vu, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on why. 

 

Next Week:  Chapter 4