Cross Dressing (7 page)

With Emmons out of the way, Dan headed to work to check on the production studio’s progress. Dan arrived to find the office wrecked. It was littered with take-out food cartons, empty soda cans, beer bottles, coffee cups, a mirror with some white powder on it, and lots of overflowing ashtrays. The entire department plus a couple of freelancers had stayed overnight working on the materials for the Fujioka presentation. It was hard to say who looked worse, the graphics people who hadn’t slept in twenty-six hours or Dan who had spent a fitful night fretting about the bill his mom had run up the night before.

Dan’s funk lifted slightly when he saw what the studio had produced during their all-night session. It was functional yet witty, and it incorporated the company’s logo organically. He just hoped it had enough cross-cultural appeal to lure the Fujioka executives.

The presentation started at three. Oren and Dan made a flawless pitch and an hour later they emerged from the conference room with a one-hundred-million-dollar account in their pockets. They made immediate arrangements for a
catered cocktail party to celebrate the kickoff of the “More Is More” campaign.

S
everal hours later the Prescott Agency conference room had been transformed. The walls were plastered with Fujioka logos and dozens of the new “More Is More” posters. In the center of the conference table, the caterer, guided by the campaign motif, had created a miniature—yet fabulously expensive—reflecting pool made of premium beluga caviar. Sitting cross-legged at the edge of the pool was a large marzipan Zen master. The rest of the table was covered with themed appetizers including little goat cheese stereo systems and big-screen TVs fashioned from pate.

The bars at both ends of the room were stacked three deep with thirsty executives. The mood was high and the room was filled with much toasting and self-congratulation. The bar was generously stocked with the finest Seagram products, including five vintage-dated single-malt Scotch whiskies produced by the world-renowned Glenlivet Distillery, Crown Royal, Boodles gin, Captain Morgan’s Private Stock rum, Perrier-Jouet.

“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked.

“Yes, please,” a handsome executive said. “Do you have any cognac?”

The bartender smiled. “Not just cognac, sir, Martell Cordon Bleu.”

The handsome executive nodded knowingly. “Perfect.”

Dan put on a great face, selling his excitement and enthusiasm like so much breakfast cereal, but he was starting to fade. Tired of mingling, Dan stood off in a corner watching the celebration but not enjoying it. Dan knew he couldn’t keep Scott in the dark forever, and when he found out what
had happened, well, Dan didn’t want to think about it. All he was thinking about right now was getting some sleep. He stifled a yawn and lifted his Armanis to rub his eyes.

“I can help you out with that,” a voice said. It was Andre from the production studio. Andre was an adequate artist and a hard enough worker, but he was kept around mainly because of his reliable cocaine connections which allowed the production studio to respond to rush orders like the one they had done the night before. Andre smiled slyly, brushed a finger past his nose. “It’s the quicker picker-upper.”

Dan hesitated. He hadn’t had a bump since he couldn’t remember when, and right now it sounded like a great idea. He just wondered if it was good stuff or if it had been stepped on a dozen times. “Stronger than dirt?” he asked.

Andre winked. “A little dab’ll do ya.”

“What are we talking?” Dan asked, rubbing a thumb against fingertips.

Andre put a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “On the house,” he said as his free hand slipped the small amber vial into Dan’s coat pocket. “Congratulations, big guy. Just remember me when you get that corner office.” Andre turned and headed for the men’s room.

Dan was more alert already. He went to the bar, freshened his drink, and was about to sneak off for a jolt when Oren stopped him. “So, did you already write the press release?”

Dan looked confused. “About the account?”

Oren smiled and put his arm around Dan. “About The Prescott Agency’s newest partner.” He gave Dan’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

Dan’s roller coaster of a life was suddenly going up. “Partner? Are you shittin’ me?”

“I don’t kid about that sort of thing,” Oren said. “You just doubled our goddamn billings. I figure if I don’t let you in, you’ll go start your own shop and take Fujioka with you.”

Dan rubbed his beard as he soaked up the moment. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, the one he felt he had earned. “Oren, just let me say—”

“You motherfucking thief!”

That is not what I was going to say
, Dan thought. There was a commotion at the door and Dan saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was Scott Emmons in midair, flying at him like a round-eyed refugee from a Hong Kong action movie.
Oh, shit!

“You stole my fucking idea!” Scott crashed into Dan and sent him reeling backward into the conference-room table. His glass flew from his hand and decapitated the marzipan Zen master before skittering off the table. “I’ll gut you with a goddamn chain saw!” Scott screeched.

Oren, shrinking from the battle, thought Scott looked as though he meant it.

“Get him off of me!” Dan yelled. “Somebody help!”

It turned out that after delivering the Shaftem, Dickem spot to the executive producer at COD, Scott had called in to see if Dan needed him to do anything else before he went home. Dan’s assistant, not knowing any better, told Scott about how Dan had landed the Fujioka account with this great “More Is More” campaign idea. Further she told him they were going to be having a big party in the conference room to celebrate. She invited Scott to join the party.

So he did. “You rat bastard son-of-a-bitching thief!” Scott shrieked.

Oren was terrified, and even though he would have hated to see his ace creative guy gutted with a chain saw, he wasn’t about to wade into the fray and risk getting goat cheese on his shirt. But he had to do something. “Somebody call Security,” he yelled.

While Scott was banging the rat bastard son-of-a-bitching thief’s head into the caviar reflecting pool, Dan managed to
have an idea. He wrestled Scott to the floor where they proceeded to roll around furiously while Scott threw wild punches and spewed invective. Scott was so intent on trying to gouge Dan’s eyes out that he didn’t keep track of what Dan was doing with his hands. With everyone else focused on the fight, the Fujioka executives took the opportunity to get fresh cocktails.

A moment later Security arrived. They were a couple of beefy boys from the UCLA football program who were working part-time until they could find an agent or a booster to give them illegal cash under the table. Oren, wanting to help in any way possible, pointed the security guys in the direction of the fight. They pulled Scott off of Dan and subdued him. Dan was still lying on the floor. He pointed wildly up at Scott. “He’s crazy!” Dan yelled. “He’s on drugs or something! Get him away from me!”

“I’m going to feed your testicles to my fucking dog!” Scott swore.

The security guards bent Scott violently over the conference table and cuffed him. He continued to struggle and make wheezy threats, so one of the security guys stuffed a handful of the pate televisions into Scott’s mouth. As Scott gagged on the goose liver, the security guys rooted through his pockets. They found car keys, a wallet, some ChapStick, and a small amber vial filled with a rocky white powder. “Looks like meth,” one of them said.

The other one shook his head. “Blow.”

Scott looked over his shoulder. “What? That’s not mine!”

“He’s a goddamn drug addict,” Dan yelled. “He’s crazy. Call the police! Get him out of here! He’s a fucking dope dealer!”

In his entire cringing existence, Scott had never even smoked pot, much less snorted any cocaine. It wasn’t that he disapproved, he was just too scared to do things like that.
Scott knew the security guards didn’t have any reason to plant it on him, so the only one left to blame was Dan. Now, Scott was already pretty worked up about the Fujioka thing, but this sent him over the edge. He was so pissed he couldn’t begin to articulate his rage. He turned a deep red and looked, quite simply, psychotic.

The security guys lifted Scott by the arms and started to carry him out of the room. Scott finally regained the gift of speech. “The bastard’s framing me!” Pate issued from Scott’s nostrils as he continued hurling accusations. “It was my idea! I’m going to kill you, Steele! Count on it! You are a dead man!”

Oren watched as Dan, still sitting on the floor, combed the caviar from his dark hair. It seemed likely that Dan had stolen Scott’s idea. He couldn’t be sure about the cocaine allegations, but he suspected that somehow Dan had planted the toot on the poor schmuck at some point during the mayhem.
This is my new business partner?
Oren crossed his arms and beamed a magnificent smile. He looked like a proud parent.

F
ather Michael still felt like he was coming down with something. He’d had a couple of painful spasms in his abdomen and thought he should go see a doctor, but first he had to go to Van Nuys to attend Ruth’s 5150 evaluation and bail hearing. Dan talked about just leaving her in jail, but Michael finally shamed him into coughing up a check to cover her bond.

A court-appointed psychiatrist testified that Ruth had no control over her actions when she stopped taking her medication. He cited the “hostage incident” and several other examples to support his position. The judge agreed that Ruth wasn’t criminally responsible, but there was nothing the judge could do about the civil suits that had been filed by plaintiffs
wanting to recover financial damages. At the end of the hearing, criminal charges were dropped and Ruth was released into Michael’s custody.

This was the first time in five years that Michael had seen his mother. He had hoped for a joyful reunion, but Ruth was exhausted and depressed after her night in jail, and no matter what Michael said, his mom wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t know if she was withdrawn due to a mood swing or if she was still angry with him for going to work in Africa in the first place. Michael knew she had felt abandoned when he left, but he hoped she had gotten over that. All he really wanted was to hear her say, “I love you.” He needed that right now.

Michael stretched the muscles in his neck as he led Ruth out of the police station. He wondered why they were so stiff. “I’m parked around back,” he said. They walked slowly across the parking lot toward Michael’s ancient VW bus, which he had left with a friend while in Africa. “We’re not going back to the nursing home,” he said. “We’re going out to a place in Sylmar where I’m going to work. They’re sending your stuff over later.” He opened the car door for his mother.

Ruth climbed into the VW. Michael leaned across to put on her seat belt. Ruth looked into his eyes. “You look terrible,” she said. “You should see a doctor.”

He was glad just to hear her voice. “Nah, I’m okay. It’s just, we didn’t eat very good in Africa. Probably need vitamins or something.” Michael got into the driver’s seat, cranked it up, and pulled out of the parking lot. He tried engaging Ruth in more conversation, but she wouldn’t respond to anything. She just stared out the window as Michael drove across the Valley toward Sylmar in the northeasternmost border of the L.A. city limits.

Sylmar was a largely Hispanic community on the other side of the tracks that run parallel with San Fernando Road. It sits where the foothills of the Santa Susanna Mountains
meet the San Gabriels. It’s bordered on three sides by freeways. It’s dirty and dusty, and while there is a lot of plant life, it’s dirty and dusty too. Over the years, the area had evolved into a hodgepodge of low-income homes and light industrial facilities. Old ranchland and citrus and olive orchards had been converted to a ratty suburban purgatory, not really hell but certainly not Pacific Palisades.

Father Michael pulled off the freeway at Polk and turned right at the First Adventist Church. A couple of blocks later, past Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception and then Holy Family Catholic Church, they arrived at the Care Center. It was a large two-story boardinghouse built in the thirties, desert tan with a faded brown roof and trim. It sat at the back of a half acre of crabgrass, gravel, and dirt. There was a tired carport leaning against the east side of the building, tattered blue vinyl tarps stretched across the back doing their best to turn the structure into a garage. Bertha was parked underneath.

Sister Peg came out to meet them. “You must be Father Michael,” she said. “Welcome to the Care Center.”

Father Michael tried not to stare, but he found Sister Peg’s eyes irresistible. They were brown, sweet as angel’s breath, and perfectly framed by her habit. “It’s nice to meet you, Sister,” he said. He was surprised by the effect her eyes had and after a moment realized he was in the middle of an awkward pause. “Oh, uh, this is Ruth, my mother,” he said. “She’s not feeling well. I think she just wants to get some rest.” Ruth never looked up, never spoke. She felt like damaged goods being shuffled from one storage facility to another.

“I understand,” Sister Peg said. “I’ve got her room ready.” She looked at her watch. “Let’s take her up and then I’ll give you the nickel tour if we’ve got time.”

“Perfect.” Father Michael gently urged his mom toward the house.

Sister Peg was encouraged by Father Michael’s sweet demeanor and tender smile. The way he walked by his mother’s side instead of walking ahead of her revealed the sort of patience and kindness and respect that most people didn’t bother with anymore. She was glad to have him here.

Sister Peg showed Father Michael and Ruth to Mr. Smith’s old room. It was the smallest bedroom in the house and the only one with privacy. While Father Michael unpacked her small suitcase, Ruth sat on the edge of her new bed, looking out the window in silence. “Get some rest, Mom. I’ll check in on you later.” He gave her a kiss on the head.

Outside, Father Michael told Sister Peg about the stolen-truck escapade but assured her that his mom was back on her medication. Sister Peg told him not to worry. “Your mom’s in good hands,” she said with a reassuring smile. She looked at her watch again. “I’ve got to be across the Valley in half an hour, so I’ll show you around real quick, then I’ve got to go.” She showed him the rest of the second floor. There were eight bedrooms off the hallway, most of which were occupied by elderly residents. There was a community bathroom at the end of the hall. Next to that was a small room outfitted with a card table and two old jigsaw puzzles.