The Interview (7 page)

I read a lot. Authors, the good ones at least, are masters of
observation. Connolly is one of the good ones. I read to keep my
skills sharp, to learn, and to live vicariously through the
characters emotions. I read everything, but I find myself constantly
drawn to mysteries. Horror is a good medium for emotion; McCammon is
the best in my humble opinion. The Matthew Corbett mysteries are
especially brilliant with their mix of the two. I watch movies and
television for the same reasons. Most of the acting is so bad that I
have to take anything I internalize with a grain of salt, but there
is some brilliant stuff out there. Facial expressions, body language,
moral and ethical right and wrong, they are all crucial to me. I tend
to favor the characters who straddle the line of social right and
wrong. Dexter, Reacher, Riddick, Parker, Tommy Gavin, Ranger, even
House in some ways, are the types of characters I identify with as I
grow older.

At the center of them is my father, a good, quiet man who taught me
how to deal with my disability. He taught me that sometimes a
weakness could be a strength.

AN HOUR LATER PARKER FOUND a tiny moment of peace, but I had not. The
heat had not abated in the slightest. My pleasant little buzz had
evaporated along with most of the moisture in my body. I retreated to
the artificial cool of the house, but it did nothing to alleviate the
growing restlessness I felt. After pacing the house too many times,
flicking through channels and finding nothing, I went in search of
answers.

I agonized for about a half second on whether to change my clothes or
not. I stuck with my baggy red bathing suit, a gray t-shirt
proclaiming that I was a member of the Huntington Beach Men's Spring
League Championship Team, and my flip-flops rounded out my ensemble.
I have too many of those championship shirts, but they are all I wear
so it works out.

The Cougar purred when I turned the key and started her up. The
engine's rumble entered through the seat and vibrated my spine. I
felt ultra cool as I cruised through the neighborhood, my long Sammy
Hagar curls whipping around my head. The Cougar was a 1967 XR7. The
outside was painted forest green, while the interior was tan leather
that I had spent a tidy sum on having restored. The purr under the
hood was a 289 small block with a double-barrel Edelbrock 650 and
custom headers. A Hurst slam shifter gave it that extra little umph
when I was coming off the line. The guy who sold me the car told me
the Cougar was magic. I believed him. That's why I bought it.

The
Doors
were singing “L.A. Woman”
in both ears as I exited the neighborhood onto Alta Vista. I went up
the hill then dropped down the other side before turning right on
Dunnavant.

The way I saw it, I had three problems. Tristan, Batman, and the cop.
Of the three, the cop worried me the most. She had known exactly what
she was doing when she planted me on the grass. She was telling me
who was in charge. There wasn’t anything I could do about. She
wasn’t worried about me. She was the law.

Worrisome. Not a lot I could do about it though. I wasn’t going
to call the police and report her. That would just earn me the wrath
of the entire department. She was on the backburner for the time
being.

Batman? Who knew. I kind of hoped he got what he wanted last night.
I wasn’t worried about him, yet. He would have done more than
hit me in the head if I was a threat.

So that left with me Tristan. I knew where he was. He had not pointed
a gun at me. The other two nutjobs in my life wanted to know what my
connection with him was. I would start with Tristan.

THERE WAS A BROWN-HAIRED beauty named Ashley waiting for me when I
arrived. She stood in the doorway and smiled at me as I walked up the
driveway.

“Good evening, Mr. Jenks.” She looked like an accountant
based on her wardrobe. She looked like an accountant in a porno based
on her body. I didn’t like Tristan very much, but I liked his
choice in women. She wasn’t as heart-stopping as Alex, but this
lady was in the same league. Nice.

“Hey. That outfit suits you better.”

She held out her hand. No rings. French tip manicure. Professional
grip. “My name is Ashley Crest. It’s a pleasure to meet
you in a more traditional manner.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Ashley.” Again, it was her
intelligence that overshadowed everything. This was one smart woman.
She oozed smarts like Jenna and Kristi oozed sexuality.

“I wanted to applaud you for the way you handled last night.
Very admirable. I also wanted to thank you for what you said about
Alex and I.”

“Nothing admirable about it. But you're welcome. Tristan
around?”

“Is he expecting you?”

“You probably know the answer to that better than I. Doesn’t
matter. I need to have a chat with him.”

“May I ask what this conversation is in reference to?”

“No, Ms. Crest, you may not. You can tell the gorilla standing
behind you to search me. Then you can take me to see Tristan.”

The smile never left her face. She blinked. Appraised me for a
moment, then stepped to the side. “Come on in, Mr. Jenks.”

I stepped inside. The air was cool. I smelled the lingering aroma of
good Chinese food. The same gorilla as last night was waiting for me.

“Hi, Jim.” I spread my arms and legs.

“Evening, Mr. Jenks.” He patted me down. All very civil.

“This way,” said Ashley when Jim was finished.

“Later, Jim.”

Jim didn’t reply. Probably had some raw meat to eat or
something. I followed Ashley into a large living room. Most guys
would have been staring at her ass. It was a nice one. Great legs.
Great walk. I’m not most guys. She had a girl’s name. Not
my type.

The living room was big and open. The ceiling was twenty feet up.
Expensive furniture filled the room. Expensive paintings hung on the
walls. I know rich people décor like I know guns. It was
impressive though.

We walked through a dining room. Dark wood table with seating for
twelve. Two china cabinets made from the same wood lined one wall. A
wet bar, with an impressive selection of liquor caught my eye. I
wandered over. There was an espresso machine that looked exactly like
the one in a Starbucks. There was a blender. A full-sized
refrigerator. I had a plan.

Ashley had taken a seat at an island. Four stools lined a marble
countertop. An immaculate six-burner Wolf stove was set into the
island. A rack of gleaming copper pots and pans hung from the
ceiling. Tristan probably had a personal chef.

I sat down with Ashley. An empty stool between us.

“So what do you do when you‘re not play-acting for one of
Tristan’s mind game sessions?” I asked.

“I’m an accountant. I run the financial division of
Tristan’s company.”

“And what exactly is Tristan’s company?”

Before Ashley could answer, Alex entered the room.

“Mr. Jenks. What a pleasant surprise.”

My knees got weak. My heart rate picked up.

“Good to see you again, Alex.”

She smiled. Her blue eyes held a challenge for me. I got hard.

“Ashley, will you let Tristan know that Mr. Jenks is here.”

“Certainly.” She stood. “Pleasure to meet you
again, Mr. Jenks. I hope to see you again.”

“OK.”

Ashley left. Alex walked over and touched my arm. My blood vessels
exploded beneath her fingers. “What can we do for you, Mr.
Jenks?”

“I’d like to use your blender.”

“Be my guest.”

“Outstanding.” I got up and returned to the bar. “This
is the biggest blender I’ve ever seen. I could blend a cow in
this thing. Got more controls than the space shuttle. Did he steal it
from NASA?”

I was very conscious of her eyes on me. I tried not to tremble with
desire. I was mostly successful.

I surveyed the refrigerator. “Got this from NASA as well I
see.” I punched some buttons in hopes that cubed ice would
appear. It spit out some crushed stuff that I did not want. I dumped
it down the sink, and tried again with success.

“Don't watch, this is my secret recipe,” I said as I
started pouring alcohol in with the ice. She could have cared less
about what I was doing with the blender. Her eyes just took me in.

I finished up and pushed a button I was pretty sure would puree the
crap out of my concoction. The sound of crushed ice filled the
kitchen.

“So how was your day?” I asked when I was satisfied with
the consistency. That's the key. Blend it too long and the drink is
too watery. Not enough, you get little ice chunks that drunk people
can choke on.

“Good. Very productive. How was yours?”

“Interesting. Glasses?”

She pointed to a china cabinet. She wasn't going to win any awards as
a barback, but I didn't mind. There were wine glasses. Champagne
glasses. Beer steins. Goblets. The bars I worked in served drinks in
glass. Everything here was crystal. I grabbed three goblets and
filled them up.

“Was your day not what you expected?”

I chugged half my drink. I didn’t think the crystal made the
drink taste any better. But if felt good in my hand. I polished off
the remainder of the drink. The alcohol hit me in two seconds. I
refilled my goblet before I answered.

“Alex, I have two expectations in life. I expect to die from
skin cancer or lung cancer or a combination of the two. Second, I
expect to play in the 55 and over World Series of Softball. That's
it. Speaking of which, I need to smoke.”

Alex might have shaken her head in amazement at me. I didn't know her
well enough and she was good at keeping her thoughts off her face.
She may have been shaking her head at my utter stupidity, or maybe it
was in denial of the fierce attraction she was feeling for me. I
liked that one.

She carried two goblets and I followed with the pitcher and mine as
she led me out to the back patio. The temperature was still on the
wrong side of 90. A glass table and eight bamboo chairs were arranged
on the patio. I set the pitcher in the middle of the table. I sat
down, lit a cigarette and stared out over one of the Alta Vista
Country Club's eighteen holes. Beyond the green, I could see lights
moving up and down Rose Drive in the fading daylight.

“This is really good,” she said after tasting the drink.
She took another.

“Careful, they'll knock you on your pretty little butt faster
than you can say, ‘Please sleep with me, Kelly.’”

She snorted as a bit of the drink went up her nose. Before she could
reply, Tristan appeared. He wore a pair of shorts that looked
remarkably like mine. His were black. He wasn‘t wearing a shirt
or shoes. I was a little jealous.

“Did you get those at Walmart?” I asked him.

“Yes. I have your color, too. Very comfortable.” He sat
down. Eyed the glass in front of him. Picked it up and took a sip.
“Tastes like a vanilla milkshake.”

“Yes!” I agreed.

I stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. Then I topped my glass
off with the remains of my batch. “Sorry, I'll have to make
some more.”

“Yes, I think you will,” he agreed.

“Not for me,” Alex said. “It sneaks up on you.”

“Told ya.” Her eyes never left me, but her body was
relaxing. She could still kick my ass around the yard, probably with
one hand tied behind her back. But the drink was mellowing her. She
wasn’t a drinker. It was impossible, but she was getting
sexier.

“I’m surprised to see you again, Mr. Jenks. Your
departure last night was . . .” He searched for the word.

I supplied him with, “Hasty. Irritated.”

He nodded. Took another drink. “Those work. What do you call
this drink?”

“Screamin’ Orgasm, brother. The cure for what ails you.”

“Ingredients?”

“Four parts alcohol. One part ice.”

“More specifically?”

“Secret recipe. Sorry.”

He made a funny face, as if he wasn’t used to people being
secretive, flippant, or sarcastic. I was all three of those things so
he needed to get over it.

“You are an interesting man, Mr. Jenks.”

“Hey, now. I'm drinking your booze and I've seen your salami.
You can call me Kelly.”

“Kelly, of course.” He took a drink. Licked his lips.
“So what can I do for you, Kelly?”

“Well, for starters, you can tell me about the guy who stuck a
gun in my face last night. Then you can tell me about the psycho cop
who felt me up this afternoon.”

“And why would I be able to tell you about them?”

“Because they were both very curious as to what my relationship
to you is."

Tristan and Alex shared a look. Good. They could think about that
while I mixed up another batch of Orgasms.

I WAS ON THE ROAD from buzzed to drunk. I liked it. Drunk is good for
me. I feel more. If the post office didn’t frown upon it, I
would be drunk every day at work. But here and now, sitting on
Tristan’s patio in the heat, drunk was just fine.

The sun was gone. The heat wasn’t. The backyard was discreetly
lit with ground lights. The patio was in relative darkness. The
better to hide our expressions as we spoke.

“Tell me what happened,” Tristan said when I was seated
again. I did. They listened. When I finished, I said, “Thoughts?”

“I brought you here last night because I wanted to thank you
for dealing with the situation. Yolanda called, told me what
happened, and I felt compelled to offer you my deepest thanks.”

No mention of the girls in lingerie. Like it was nothing. An everyday
occurrence in the life of Tristan. Must be nice.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“And you own Sorority Row?”

He smiled at the name. “If you're referring to the last six
houses on this street, then yes, I own them.”

“And you own Tacqueria.”

“Yes. I own several businesses in Orange County, but my base of
operations is here.”