Jackie's Week (6 page)

"Trust me. It’s not all that bloody happy."
She fiddled with the remote control, igniting the 60-inch screen
fed by the Blu-Ray before raising her flute as the movie began.
"Here’s looking at you, kid."

"You say it every time we watch this
flick."

"I can’t help myself. When Bogie says it,
when he’s toasting Ingrid Bergman, it’s the ultimate love
scene."

"In your opinion," Jackie said.

"You got a better one?"

"For my money, the best love scene is when he
says We’ll always have Paris."

"To each her own, Jackie. Now quit
"Bogarting" our popcorn and pass it here."

At the point in the movie where Rick reminds
Ilsa of their last meeting the day the Nazi’s marched into Paris,
Donna said, "You know, no matter how many times we watch this film
together, I always feel so secure in our little nest. Our ritual of
honoring heroes and heroines greater than ourselves. And I feel so
comforted in the bonds of our sisterly love."

A soft snore escaped from Jackie’s lips.
Donna reached for the Afghan and covered her sister’s sleeping
form. "I love you Jackie. Here’s looking at you, kid."

Chapter 11

"Vzjat’ na abordaž," Viktor Bout whispered
softly. The nightmare closed in. Jackie could not turn it off. She
began to pray, Dear God, please kill me now in my sleep. Take my
life. But God didn’t intervene, just as He hadn’t any other night
since the attack. She was back in the parking lot with Bout sitting
on her chest, pinning her arms, pointing the spray can. The pepper
spray exploded in a fiery wave over her face, forcing her eyes
shut. He released his grip on her throat and as always she opened
her mouth to suck in some air, but when she did he sprayed inside
her mouth and throat, crippling her breathing. The pain from the
spray was like a violent, living force, as though someone had
torched her head inside and out.

Jackie opened her eyes and the dream
dissolved. She gulped for air. Why was the dream so real? When
would the nightmares stop? The morning light was streaming through
the window of the den. Somewhere deep inside the house, she could
hear the sound of water running through the pipes, and a news
announcer’s voice droning.

She got up and found her way to the kitchen,
where Donna was pouring water into the coffee maker. The tiny flat
screen on the counter poured out a steady stream of bad news, the
chief item seeming to be the higher than expected unemployment
figures-for all but government employees.

"You look like hell," Donna said.

"Feel like it too. I smell Jamaica Blue
Mountain."

Donna smiled. "Coffee’ll be ready in a
minute. Jackie, you’re shaking. Are you cold?"

"Nope. Just the usual. Had the dream
again."

"I’m sorry, Jackie," Donna said. "But it
can’t go on forever. Things are changing."

"I just want to go upstairs and hide."

"Jackie, when you fall off the horse you have
to get back on. I’ll tell you what, a makeover wouldn’t hurt right
about now. I think you need a change. You need to make yourself
more attractive."

"More attractive for whom?" Jackie said.

"For yourself," Donna replied.

"I don’t want to be attractive. That’s what
caused my problem in the first place."

Donna sighed. "Listen, I understand where you
are coming from. This is why you are going to continue to see Dr.
Black. She is going to walk through your interior with you and help
you reclaim what Bout took. For now, what we should do is throw
something on and go down the hill to breakfast, and after, we can
go pick up your new car, what do you think?"

Jackie raised her head and stared at
Donna.

"What do you mean, my new car?"

"Oh, Jackie. Funny."

"No, Donna. I’m serious. You said something
about my new car. What are you talking about?"

"Jackie, it’s too early for this."

"Donna, I had the bad dream as usual, like
every night since I got attacked, but what’s different is this
morning, I woke up here on your couch instead of in my own
bed."

"Jackie, are you saying what I think you’re
saying? You were in a black out?"

"What I’m saying, dear sister, is this—the
last thing I remember from yesterday is having a couple of shots
with you at Taxco. But after that, everything’s a blank. Now what’s
this about a new car?"

"You better get a grip, Jackie. Because last
night after drinks we went out and you wrote a check for a new car.
A red one."

Jackie ran to the den and pulled out her
checkbook, examining it slowly before walking back to the kitchen.
"I don’t believe this. Why didn’t you stop me?"

"I tried to, but you got very ugly. The sales
guy saw how out of it you were and like the shark he is, he hustled
you into signing the contract. And he wouldn’t tear up the contract
after you signed it."

"What kind of car did I buy?"

"A Lexus."

"Which one?"

"The fastest one they make."

"And it’s red? I deserve death."

"You better have a cup of coffee." Donna
poured Jackie a generous mug of the steaming brew.

"Awww. Donna. That check I wrote? It's bogus.
The checkbook is from when I used to have a line of credit on my
house, but the bank froze it when my house lost all its value.
Which is another problem entirely, the fact I have almost run
completely out of money and am basically unemployable. I certainly
can’t go out and join Obama's youth core or whatever he calls them,
or spend my days doing piecework at the solar panel factories. All
those years I worked for the bank and now the freaking bank has
gone out of business. I can’t even get welfare because the State is
bankrupt. The bank is going to foreclose on my old house any
minute. And nobody is buying houses in L.A. right now and if they
are, they only give you a fraction of what it is really worth!"

"So let them foreclose. You don't live there
anyway."

"Well someday I might want to again."

Donna took a big sip of coffee. "Stop
whining. You are not going to run out of money. If it comes down to
it, I will support you. But right now we do have a problem with
your new car. They won’t cancel the contract. Dealerships are
vicious, especially now since most of them are broke. They will
claim the car is used and sue you for the instant depreciation.
I’ll go get Bienenfeld. Maybe he can send one of his thugs to the
dealership to convince the finance manager to tear up the contract.
While I’m doing that, I think you’d better try and relax. Remember,
you’re not alone anymore. You’re seeing Dr. Black again today. I’m
sure she’s going to want to hear all about your little
escapade."

"I just realized I have no way to pay Dr.
Black."

"I’m paying for it."

"I can’t let you do that. You already do too
much for me."

"Shut up. I’m rich, remember? Until you are
back on your feet, it’s my job to take care of you."

"That makes me feel like some kind of a
cripple."

"You are a cripple."

"Okay. Now we have established that, the
cripple needs some toast or something. I can’t take my Ativan on an
empty stomach."

"No more Ativan. Not after last night. Not
until you tell Dr. Black what happened."

"Okay. A Bloody Mary, then. To calm my
nerves."

Donna was silent.

"That was not a joke," Jackie said. "It’s
either the Ativan, the vodka, or both, or I pull my hair out. I can
feel the shakes already."

Donna remained staring and the beginnings of
a frown formed.

"I’ll wait," Jackie said. "I know you’ve got
a point coming."

"You know, dear Sister, even a bird builds a
nest before she lays an egg."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it’s time you gave some thought to
what you’re doing with your life."

"You’re wrong," Jackie replied. "Because I’m
not your ordinary bird. I’m beginning to discover I’m more like the
ostrich. The ostrich doesn’t build anything. She runs way out in
the Babylon desert, drops her payload on the sand and splits.
That’s me."

Donna frowned and dropped a couple of slices
into the toaster. "I give up, Jackie. Eat some toast, have a Bloody
Mary, take your pill, drink your coffee. Whatever. I wish you’d
take a shower. You smell. But whatever. Do whatever you need to do.
Meanwhile, I’m going to wake Bienenfeld up. Maybe he can help out
with your car situation."

"Boom," said Jackie. "There goes
Babylon."

Chapter 12

"So what happened last night that’s so
important I had to get up?" Bienenfeld said. He was sitting at the
table with the two women. "The party with Kiefer and Siobhan ended
late. I’m in no shape for an early morning. No shape at all. I
think I’m still a little drunk."

Clad in a pair of shiny gold pajamas, he was
holding forth from the head of the kitchen table, slathering
strawberry jam onto a piece of whole wheat toast. Bienenfeld, short
and toad-like, with dark central Europeonistic features, a good
head of hair only slightly gone to gray. Clearly a man who had no
problem being married to a woman a foot taller than he was. He had
made his bones at the helm of a private Beverly Hills bank catering
to the entertainment industry, which continued to do well despite
the failures of other banks. In America, when times got tough, the
tough went to the movies, and those movies needed capital, and that
capital provided Bienenfeld and his ilk with a handsome rate of
return.

"Ira Hirschel," Jackie said. "Don’t hog all
the jam." Jackie was feeling somewhat more relaxed. The pill had
kicked in, taking the edge off the anxiety.

"I told you never to call me Ira Hirschel,"
he said. "Even my own mother wasn’t allowed to call me that. And
you may note that she is dead."

"Sorry, Bienenfeld."

He passed the jam, which she ate from the jar
with a spoon. "Jackie," he said, "now that you’re living in my
house, you need to start showering. And you might consider having
my housekeeper bury those sweats in the back yard, for pity’s sake.
Wait. Don't. the coyotes would dig them up immediately."

"Get off her back," Donna said. "You know she
has issues."

"I tried to shower," Jackie said. "But I just
couldn’t. The best I could manage was a pirate bath."

"What the hell is that," Bienenfeld said.

"You know, a little splash under the
armpits."

The trio sat and sipped their coffee in
silence, each wondering in turn what neuropsychiatric algorithm
caused Jackie to fear showering and the wearing of anything but the
same old sweat pants and shirt.

"I got really wasted last night and wrote a
ginormous check for a car," Jackie said. "A new crisis."

"No, not a crisis, which is a catastrophic
blend of several problems. Sounds more like a single problem,"
Bienenfeld remarked. "Or is there more?"

"The car cost about 75 grand. She wrote a
rubber check. She only has about 500 dollars left to her name,"
Donna said.

Bienenfeld sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Your first mistake was buying a car on your own. I could have
gotten you any car you wanted below dealer cost. And money wouldn’t
be a problem for you if you’d followed my advice six months ago and
sued Gelson’s market on whose premises you were assaulted under the
very nose of their so-called security guard. Hell, by now you’d be
a millionaire."

"Spoken like a lawyer," Donna said.

"Which I am," Bienenfeld replied. "At least
on paper."

"Tell you what," Jackie replied forcefully.
"Until yesterday, I just couldn’t face it. But I’m a new woman
today. An angry woman. Today the idea looks good. You do the
lawsuit for me."

"Okay," Bienenfeld said. "I’ll call Century
City and release a toxic cloud of threats upon Gelson’s Legal
Department immediately."

"Honey," Donna said. "Before you waft the
toxic cloud, maybe you can have one of your people go down to the
dealership in Van Nuys and fix things for Jackie. Make them tear up
the contract."

"No," he said. "What’s done is done. And
Jackie needs a car. Donna, this morning, why don’t you drive Jackie
over to our bank and have her talk to Marsha? Tell her I said
Jackie needs about a hundred grand to tide her over."

"We’re taking the limo," Donna said. "That
way we can go to the bank and then fetch Jackie's new car and send
the limo back for you, and I can stay with Jackie so she doesn’t
have to be alone."

"Excuse me? Did I hear you say a hundred
grand?" Jackie said. "Did I?"

"Why not? I make loans to lots of people down
on their luck. One time I even loaned 50 grand to Mickey
Cohen."

"Mickey Cohen? The gangster?"

"The kid from Boyle Heights—one and the same.
Of course, he did threaten to kill me if I said no."

"Did he pay you back?" Jackie asked.

"Of course not. But then again, he didn’t
kill me, either."

"How can you make me a loan if I don’t even
have a job?"

"We have ways," Bienenfeld said. "You can pay
the whole thing off after we kick ass when Gelson’s supermarket
settles."

"I need a tissue," Jackie said. "Your
generosity, it’s ... it’s ..."

"Jackie," Donna said, handing her a napkin,
"I think you’ve reached a milestone here. As crazy as it sounds,
you’re beginning to come alive."

"I’d call hitting me up for a hundred grand a
bit more than merely living again," Bienenfeld said.

"Shut up, Bienenfeld," Donna said. "Jackie,
you’re moving in with us."

"I ... I’d like to. But is it okay with you,
Bienenfeld?"

"Consider yourself already moved in. I’ll
send some people to your apartment to get the rest of your stuff,
unless it's like the stuff you have on, in which case I will have
it burned. Meanwhile, maybe you and Donna can see about getting you
cleaned up. Maybe she can hold your hand while you're in the
shower."