That Man 2 (10 page)

“That’s a wrap!” shouted Eddie with relief.

Thank God.

While the two actors stormed off the set, Eddie sauntered up to Vera and me. He cracked a smile and gave me a manly pat on the back. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Blake. How’s it going?”

“Great.”
Get me the fuck out of here.

“I’m really digging Vegas. The town’s got so much talent.”

“It depends on what you call talent,” I snickered. Vera bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

“Hey, I’m about to have a meeting with a very talented director. I’d love for you to meet him. He’s waiting in my office.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed to join him. Vera and I followed Eddie to his small office behind the set.

“Blake, I’d like you to meet—”

I could feel my face blaze with rage. My fists clenched so tightly my knuckles turned white. Gritting my teeth, I cut Eddie off.

“Get the fuck out of here. Or I’ll kill you.”

It was the fucking lowlife bastard. Don Springer. His face turned as fire-red as mine.

“Blake!” gasped Vera. Eddie remained speechless, his mouth agape.

“Vera, I’ll explain later.”

Springer leapt to his feet and stomped over to me. He was in my face. His fetid breath heated my cheeks. I couldn’t bear sharing the air he breathed. It took all my willpower not to throw him out the door. And to keep my heart from beating out of my chest and exploding in his ugly face.

“Fuck you, Burns. You’re going to pay big time.” He spat at me and then stalked out of Eddie’s office.

“I never want to see this man again anywhere on or near this set,” I barked at Eddie while Vera grabbed a tissue from her purse and wiped the prick’s spit off my chin.

Cowering, Eddie nodded. “Got it, boss.”

“You call me if he comes back.” Looping my arm through Vera’s, I led her out of Eddie’s office.

“Jesus. What the fuck was that all about? That was Don Springer, right? The producer of
Wheel of Pain
.”

I nodded as we headed back to her car. “That fucking bastard almost raped Jennifer on the set of
Wheel
.” All the pain of that night seeped into my veins as I retold the horrific story.

“Oh my God!” gasped Vera, clasping her free hand to her mouth.

“If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, God knows what he would have done to her. I cancelled the show and fired him on the spot.”

“That was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you this earlier. I should have sent an e-mail out to everyone. With my flu last week, a lot of things went by the wayside.”

“Blake, don’t worry about it. Shit happens.”

“I’ve made it so he never works in LA again.”

“I have a lot of power in Vegas. I’m going to make sure that asshole never works in this town either.”

I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Vera. You’re the best.”

She broke into a smile. “Now, Superman, go save your relationship.”

Blake

A
t six in the evening, I caught my flight back to Los Angeles. Actually, I was flying into Burbank, a small retro airport located in the Valley not far from Dickwick’s office. While LAX, LA’s main airport, was much closer to my condo, I was unable to book my last minute flights from there. Not a big deal though I hated being in The Valley.

Sitting in first class, I was still reeling from my encounter with Springer. The fucking, fucking bastard. At least, he was now based in Las Vegas, far enough away from Jennifer. My need to protect her was fierce. It brought out a killer instinct I never knew I had. Heaven help the man who hurt her. Move over Superman, Batman, and Ironman.
Thatman,
my new alter ego, would cut his fucking balls off!

Knowing she was safe, my mind wandered. I wondered if she’d received my cactus plant. I was disappointed she hadn’t e-mailed or texted me to thank me. Maybe she thought it was some kind of ruse. Or she didn’t like cactus. Or she’d never gotten it. Nah. I could count on my mother’s florist. Especially since she spent tens of thousands of dollars with him during the year—purchasing flowers for both our house and her many charitable galas.

I ordered a beer from the flight attendant. Savoring it, I pondered how I was going to prove that Jen’s fiancé, Bradley Wick, DDS, was
vomiticious.
Totally not the right person for my tiger. Phase Three of
Operation Dickwick
was officially in effect. Hopefully, it would be the last.

Damn. Not one breakthrough idea. Almost as fast as we were up in the air, we were back down. The flight to Burbank was only forty-five minutes. We encountered no problems. Upon landing, I called for my car. I’d parked it with the valet. It was actually simpler than taking a cab, and plus, I got a free car wash.

The night was warm. Man, it was like we were having an endless summer while everyone in the rest of the country was freezing their asses off. My sparkling clean Porsche came around quickly. Pleased, I hopped into it and sped off.

Only minutes into the ride home, my stomach rumbled. I was starving. During Vera’s whirlwind tour of our Vegas productions, I hadn’t eaten a thing. I drove by one crap fast-food joint after another and then remembered a decent place where I could grab a bite to eat. The Smokehouse.

I hadn’t been to the Smokehouse in Burbank in ages. In fact, I’d only been here once before with my father. Around since the 1940s, it was very old school—big red leather booths, a meat-and-potatoes menu, and old-fashioned drinks. It was a haven for Hollywood old-timers. Especially those looking for a good fuck. It was no secret that hookers patrolled the bar looking for a well-paying lay.

For me, it was a sociological experience. Seated at my own dimly lit booth, I surveyed the gray hairs in garish polyester jackets looking to get some pussy, I wondered—would this be me in twenty years? I already had a couple of pre-mature grays, a gene I’d inherited from my silver-haired father. There was something pathetic about an older man trolling bars and looking for a hook-up. Maybe that’s why my old man took me here—to show me how my life could turn out if I didn’t settle down.

A waitress came by and asked for my order. She came with the territory—sexy but cheap-looking with a pile of brassy hair and boobs that could create a new bra size—double X. Strangely, she didn’t turn me on, despite her seductive ways. I ordered another beer—a Coors, the only one on tap—and a cheeseburger with fries. My mind was focused solely on my dilemma—Jennifer McCoy. I was crazy about her. But I fucking didn’t know how to handle it. Why couldn’t she see her douchebag fiancé was all wrong for her? And why couldn’t I prove it?

The chesty waitress came by quickly with my beer. Over a gulpful, I considered my next move. Maybe it was time to tell Jennifer I was the man she’d kissed in that game of Truth or Dare. Maybe, that would shake things up.
Or
screw things up. Frustrated, I slammed the mug back on the table and flipped open the copy
of The Hollywood Reporter
I’d brought along to entertain myself. Burying my eyes in the trade magazine, I caught up on the latest show biz goings-on. To my surprise, there was a small article about the cancellation of
Wheel of Pain
. News traveled fast in this town. Fucking Don Springer. Every muscle in my body tensed.
If I ever saw that fucking bastard again . . .

My thought was cut short when a familiar scent assaulted me. I’m not talking barbecued beans. A powerful, cloying odor that nauseated me. Scrunching my face, I remembered where I’d encountered that smell. How could I forget? At the office of Bradley Wick, DDS. It was the
vomiticious
saccharine scent of his dental hygienist, Candace.

I glanced up from
The Reporter
and couldn’t believe my eyes. Holy shit! There she was brushing past my table. All 36-24-36 of her packaged in the tightest, shortest mini skirt I’d ever seen and anchored in six-inch high heels. And she was dangling like a piece of jewelry on the arm of a man. Holy
fucking
shit! Bradley Wick, DDS. Dickwick. I took a quick gulp of my beer and almost gagged. He was out of his white lab coat and in his douchebag uniform—a poorly fitting navy blazer and two-inches too short khakis. D-cup Candace towered over him, but he wore her proudly as if she was a gold Rolex. I’m sure neither of them saw me. For sure, they would have stopped. They were too wrapped up with each other. But I had to be careful. Setting my mug back down on the table, I quickly lowered the baseball cap I was still wearing so they wouldn’t recognize me and flipped on my shades. Move over Oral Covert, Private Dick. I was now Blake Burns, Secret Undercover Agent. The final phase of
Operation Dickwick
was now in full force. I was going to take him down.

I took another glug of the beer and watched stealthily as they slid side by side into a leather booth. Faster than I could say, “Busted,” he was all over her, mouthing, fisting, and groping. What a fucking lowlife. Prickwick! Did Jennifer know her fucking fiancé was cheating behind her back? Boinking his sexy hygienist?

A light bulb lit up in my brain. I swear I could hear and see it ping the way they do in comic books. This had to be fate, meant to be. Jaime Zander’s words flashed in my head.
Eliminate the competition
. Not wasting a second, I grabbed my cell phone and squatted below the table just so my eyes were above the surface. Aiming the phone at the amorous couple, I thumbed the camera icon, and adjusted the setting to “video.” I tapped the screen and began recording Dickwick’s little oral care session. My lips curled into a wicked smile. I was getting it all—their heated embrace, with lover boy’s greedy little hands all over Candy-girl. Too bad, I was too far away to pick up any sound. But it was obvious; they were panting into each other’s mouths, moaning, and groaning. It was the best adult entertainment I’d witnessed in years. Better than anything I’d ever seen on SIN-TV. Then the show ended. A waitress came by to take their order and they abruptly parted. Slightly embarrassed, Dickwick dabbed his slimy lips with a napkin. Hot lips, however, continued to nibble his neck. I stopped recording. I had everything I needed. Hastily, I dug my hands into my pocket for my wallet and slapped a hundred dollar bill onto the table. Though I’d never gotten my cheeseburger, this meal was worth every penny. In a flash, I was out of there, my phone secure in my hand.

Jennifer needed to know what a two-timing prick her future husband was. She was a nice girl. She deserved better. Someone who would fuck her brains out, not fuck with her brains. Someone who would be faithful and cherish her forever. Someone like me.

Seated in my Porsche that happened to be parked next to Bradley’s Prius, I signed into one of my many bogus gmail accounts—charles­palmer­the­third@­gmail.­com. The name sounded important and distinguished. I always got a quick response back from customer service whenever I used it.

To: [email protected]

From: charles­palmer­the­third@­gmail.­com

Subject: Idea for a New TV Show

I continued to type away at the on-screen keyboard with my thumbs. There was only one thing they worked faster and better. Hint: It rhymed with “hit.”

Dear Ms. McCoy:

Congratulations on your new job at SIN-TV. I am a producer of TV series, mostly reality-based. I thought the new show I’ve been developing would be a perfect fit for your network. I’ve attached a short video clip to give you a feeling for it. I’m tentatively calling it Dickwicks. I look forward to hearing back from you
soon
and to pitching you in the near future.

Sincerely,

Charles Palmer III

Executive Producer

I quickly proofed the letter—wanting badly to change “pitching you” to “fucking you”—and attached the footage to the e-mail. The internal laughter in my head was so loud it was deafening. They say seeing is believing. A fiendish smile spread across my face as I hit send. Success. It was now a waiting game until the conscientious Ms. McCoy opened her e-mail. I wished I could be there to see the expression on her face when she clicked on the attachment. Would her sweet mouth drop? Would she gasp? Would she shed tears? Would she respond to me? Of course, I wisely adjusted my setting to auto-reply:
Mr. Palmer is out of the office . . .

I put my car in reverse and peeled out of the parking spot with a screech. I turned my satellite radio on to my favorite oldies channel. “Bad Boys,” the theme song from that TV series
Cops
, blasted through the speakers as I sped up Barham Boulevard to the entrance of the 101.

I was a very bad boy. I had to admit. But I meant well. I was just looking out for the well-being of my employees. Their futures. In less than twenty-four hours, Jennifer McCoy would be newly single and available. I was sure of it. As I cruised along the freeway, a limerick popped into my head.

There once was a dentist named Bradley

Who was caught cheating one night badly.

His fiancée caught wind

That the fuckface had sinned

And that was the end of them sadly.

Tomorrow was going to be a great day at work. I couldn’t wait.

Jennifer

B
urdened with shopping bags, I trudged into the living room of our small but cozy house. I’d just gotten back from Christmas shopping at The Grove. With its giant lit-up tree and fake snow, the popular, decked-out mall made the typically stressful experience fun. With Blake still in Vegas, I was able to sneak out of my office a little early. It turned out to be the perfect night to do my last-minute shopping and wrap up presents—Libby was once again doing evening focus groups, and Bradley was working late at his office. Earlier in the day, he’d called me and told me he was besieged with patients all wanting to see him before they went away for the holidays. He apologized for not getting in touch with me over the weekend. He was simply swamped with work and exhausted when he got home. His practice was obviously flourishing. More and more, he needed to work weekends and late hours.