CON TEST: Double Life (8 page)

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.

Nyoka and Justice met every few months to assure her colleagues were no closer to opening his case than they were the last time that they had met. He kept his travels private and met with Nyoka when convenient for him. His case was closed considering they believed that he had an untimely death. She was only to use the emergency method to contact him under one condition: his case was reopened. The agents that had wanted him had no idea that if they sniffed deeply enough, they would smell his Romeo Gigli cologne taking flight off her skin.

Justice reached deep in his pockets and handed her an envelope. By the weight, Nyoka knew that it contained her $25,000 boon. He paid her that bi-monthly.

“
I saw you pull up. What’s with the Pontiac? Uncle Sam tired of paying for you to rent the fancy XJ8?” Justice asked, accusatively. He loathed new things. He had no way to judge how new things affected him. That was what bothered him about William because he had usually played by the rules set by Justice. Everyone had too. Justice’s freedom depended on it.

“
Hertz was booked solid on luxury vehicles. This was very last minute, you know?” She replied, nastily.

“
Watch the tone, Ill-Ny-Ny,” he said, smiling after he called her the rapper Foxy Brown’s moniker.

“
I’ve told you before not to call me that in the public.”

Justice recalled how Amir used to hate being called Harry. In private or public. He dangled a room key in her face. “I forgot, only between the sheets. Oops, my faux pas.”

“
What’s the key for?” She asked as if she had no idea. That was a part of her little game.

He leaned close to her and breathed, “I was thinking we could go down to room 623. Give the maid another bed to make. Huh? What do you say?”

“
You were so sure that I’d say yes that you already bought the room? What a study in ego!”

She was never unpredictable. That made her perfect to be his snoop. He played her strings accordingly. He was quite the ladies’ man and knew how to handle her. Off to the bedroom they went.

Under the sheets, Nyoka praised his skills behind the wheel. He did not speed, show off, and never used any hazardous antics. With her legs pointed to the ceiling beneath Justice she glanced at the hotel alarm clock. Justice had been working on her for thirty-five minutes.

Even in a deserved sexual battle, he smelled of fresh scents. She loved his cleanliness. Though she wanted to stay, he had to go. She wanted to bottle him up and take him with her. She could then twist off the top of the bottle and take a sniff whenever she wanted too. Finally, they climaxed and she stared gleefully at the ceiling with Justice’s weight on her.

She wiggled from beneath him, showered, dressed and stood in front of him as if she wanted a tip.

She told him, “I would stay for round two, but I have to be back in Sacramento before they miss me.”

“
You’re going to have jet lag,” he said, grinning slyly.

“
How so?”

“
I just parked you from a flight on Planet Ecstasy.”

“
Don’t flatter yourself. I’m a LaCroix, sweetie!” She exclaimed and let herself out.

TWELVE

W
illiam walked into his pad in the early evening. He went straight to the telephone and ordered the pizza, and then took a shower. Breakfast had been his only meal and a tap on his stomach evidenced it hollow. Lundin’s soft hands would be nice to massage the knots out his neck and shoulders.

Guiltily, he felt that he should have told her the truth about his visitor. From the beginning, he should have told his wife and best friend how he acquired his exceptional literary material. He could have said, “Hey, Justice is our little secret. He gets the job done and keeps you on Rodeo Drive and weekend excursions in Aspen.” He could not imagine her exposing him. After all, Justice was just another source of information. William Fortune did all of the writing. Just the thought of her pouring over his manuscripts for inconsistencies and evident flaws, Boopsie—she was a doll. Why did he lie to her? Easy. That was what rogue egos did. Concealed the real you, and exposed what people thought of you.
But isn’t what people think of me what I really am
?

Justice had his brain juxtaposed. William’s mind heavily favored a malfunction. He needed a vacation, he thought.
Yeah, a vacation
. Go someplace exotic and extravagant. Take Lundin, and make a baby. He really had no desire to listen to the whine of a baby crying; confused about how to cure wetness and hunger. Could he write with a baby screaming? Would that be a natural concerto? He was not answered and the doorbell chimed.

Pizza box in hand, Lundin stepped through the doorway having intercepted the pizza man. The two of them went to the kitchen and dipped into the pepperoni, sausage and mushroom pizza.

“
So, Blackey, did your story progress today? The words just fly onto the screen?”

“
Of course not. This is just a pain in the ass. Jewel is not being a jewel. She’s being more like a zirconia,” he said, and they both chuckled.

“
Okay, what’s the problem? Hand me the laptop,” she demanded.

He opened his briefcase and pulled out his laptop, and pulled up the part that he was stuck on. He read the last chapter that he typed to her.

“
I take it that you originally had Justice getting arrested at Walmart? She asked, and he nodded. “Well, I guess we have a runner.”

He widened his eyes and curled his lips. “Boopsie, he is a low level con man, and I don’t think that I can convince readers that he made a great escape. He does small jobs and alone. He does not have access to a network of matchstick men to break him out of prison. I would have no problem sending him to jail and having a nurse or officers help him, but that is so boring.”

“
Okay, fair enough,” she said, stuffing her mouth with a bite of pizza. “Is it possible to just re-write the ending of this chapter to reflect that he was not faced with the drama at Walmart?”

“
It’s plausible, sure, but then you lose that element of dramatic tension, which is mandatory to drive the plot,” he told her and sipped his drink. He face was flushed with confusion. “Boopsie, there are rules that must be followed. Within the first 30-pages of a novel there has to be an inciting incident to hold the reader. This incident identifies whether the protagonist is good or bad and forces the reader to root for or hate them. It also presents the protagonist with a problem, which must be resolved by the end. Lastly, the first thirty pages should introduce the antagonist, the villain.”

“
Got it. I think. What you’re saying is that Justice’s problem is keeping his freedom with the federal boys, the antagonists, in pursuit?”

“
Precisely. I’ve been thinking that I want to force readers to root for Justice to get away with his criminal acts.”

“
Fine. Let him manipulate the arriving policeman that has stopped him. He is in no-mans-land New Jersey. Surely, the cops lack any extensive dealing with identity theft.”

“
Let alone crime in general. Good assessment,” he said, and leaned over to kiss his wife. “I think you could write this one,” he said, and kissed her smoothly.

“
Noooooooo, buddy. That’s all you,” she said, clearing the pizza from the bed. Now let me kick ya butt in Trivial Pursuit.”

He looked behind himself, and then to his left and right. “Kick whose butt? Mine? You have been drinking too much ginger ale.”

THIRTEEN

A
fter a good night’s sleep and morning jog, William walked into his office and heard the screaming silence. He craved caffeine, which he fought off with an energy drink. So many things ping-ponged inside of his skull. That day, he would sort them out. He wondered had he had it with being a writer. He had enough dumb criminal behavior reported in his tales. He hated the balance that criminals kept the world. He imagined the unemployment rate if the two-million inmates were released. Hell, what about the murder rate.
Even worse, they may take stabs at writing and step on my toes
. That propelled him to work harder. No one would steal his thunder.

Matter of fact, William had everything lately, starting with Justice. He hated things that snuck up on you like, a man’s—or woman’s for this matter—ass-crack sneaking out of their jeans. Yes, he hated that. For the most part he liked talking to strangers that had traits that he could bestow upon one of his fictional characters. However, there was a catch. At the moment that their tongue became coated with white foam, which crept out the corners of their mouth, he hated them. And he hated people that chewed with their mouths open. Viewing one’s food shifting in their mouth was malicious, and the sound that it created was outlawed in Iraq, and punishable by tongue removal.

William loved to write thrillers, though. Enough procrastination, he thought. The cursor on the computer screen kept winking at him. The Seattle Symphony filled the quiet air and, he began to type:

The patrol man stopped his vehicle and flipped the overhead lights off. Walmart loss prevention stopped walking, but Justice kept strolling through the parking lot. The cop stepped out his cruiser and summoned Justice over to his vehicle. Justice hung his head low and appeared scared. He was definitely on top of his game. He knew better than to volunteer information, not to admit anything and definitely do not rat on Amir. The Walmart guy with the stupid red hair brought the cop up to speed.

“
We received a call from one of our cashiers in electronics claiming they were being passed a fake check for $400 to purchase two camcorders. What tipped her off was that people ordinarily do not buy two camcorders. I arrived at the department and upon inspection of the check, I noticed that the check did not have a padlock on the face. That indicated that the check was printed on a home computer and not manufactured at a bank. I offered to call the bank to verify funds and the perp became panicky and snatched his ID from my hand and took off running. We gave chase, but he ran into the woods. We did not enter for our safety.”

The cop spat out tobacco and spoke with a Yankee drawl. “How’d you find him?”

“
We didn’t. This guy here was outside and looked lost, so we assumed that he was with the perp.”

The cop turned to Justice. “Where’s your friend, son?”

Son, Justice thought. “I dunno,” he replied. He sounded ignorant.

“
What’s his name?” The cop asked, pulling out his pad and pen.

“
Harry Dijonette,” the Walmart guy interjected. He showed the cop the check. “Our clerk recorded his ID number on it.”

The cop radioed the name and ID number to his dispatch officer. He waited for a response, and in the meantime, he asked Justice for ID. Justice claimed to have left his ID at home. He took down the fictitious information that Justice gave him. Prayerfully, Justice’s lies were interrupted.

“
Lazar. Go.” Officer Lazar said into his walkie talkie.

“
The ID number matches a Lauren Colansky.”

“
Roger that,” he replied and then added, “Could you run Justice Baker?” He clipped his walkie talkie on his waist, as Justice hoped that the name came back and clean.

“
Where’s Harry?” Officer asked in the interim.

Justice’s cell phone rang and he informed Lazar that it was Harry. Lazar urged him to answer it and too lure him back to the Walmart for a citation, and then he could be released.

“
Yo, Harry, where you at?” Justice answered. He seemed anxious and scared.

“
Just, I’m in a swamp face down and scared as hell, my dude. I hear weird noises and shit. The Johnnies was in here with flashlights walking right pass me. One was close enough to reach out and touch me.” He whispered, just in case one of them lurked behind. “And don’t fucking call me Harry!” He added firmly. He wasn’t that fucked up.

Letting tears roll down his face, Justice stared at the night sky. He worked on a Best Actor Tony award. “Why would you all leave me out here? How the hell am I supposed to get home?”

“
Listen, homey, I do not know what’s happening, but do not leave me here.”