36
INSIDE, nobody asks where I was. Everyone’s too excited about the big Cabo announcement. Love’s dad needs my Social Security number so that he can expedite a passport. The movie wrapped and I missed the last shot. A lot happens while you’re being wrongfully interrogated.
Champagne flows and music comes on and I say that I’m gonna take a nap. Love understands. “You’ve been running so much; I’m worried you don’t get enough rest lately.”
She hugs me and I flinch. “Sorry, went overboard with sit-ups,” I cover.
“You don’t need sit-ups,” she says. “You’re perfect.”
She kisses me and I go upstairs. Unfortunately, Love should fucking worry about me. The movie is done but my nightmare is just beginning. I close the bedroom door. I pace. I have to kill Fincher. But this is America: If you kill a cop, you die. That’s how it is. I try to be calm. Be positive. We are going to Cabo, so there’s that. Mexico’s the kind of place where people just go around cutting heads off and shit, so I have that in my favor.
Knowledge is power. I need the lay of the land. I Google La Groceria. If I know Love’s mother, she would have invited some sort of upscale website or magazine in to shoot her home, same way she did with the Aisles. Sure enough, I find an article about La Groceria and already I feel more centered, more focused, the way the sniper finds his target in the crosshairs. I find the address of La Groceria and take a fast course on the development where Love’s family makes another home, the famous residents who live nearby, and the houses up for sale. And boom. Axl Rose lives in the development. Axl Rose is the type who would have a secure home. He has nut job fans and he’s been around. His home has been on the market for years—and his schedule is good news too—he hasn’t been to Mexico in a while. As in, not going any time soon, as in, the house belongs to real estate agents.
It gets better. Axl’s home is a perpetual project, unfinished renovations, a pool that’s not done, landscaping indecision, a cobbled cornucopia of yellowing lawns and half-formed cupolas. Real estate websites supply me with pictures of this house that showcase an ongoing conflict about whether to tear it down or continue with the nouveau riche terra-cotta thing.
Another point of contention, according to the comments section of a high-end real estate blog: the home recording studio. “Home recording studio” is real estate jargon for a soundproof fucking cage and some anonymous commenter likens this airtight box to a panic room and this is good news. I could use this. I could put Fincher there. But first, I have to get him there.
So now I have to convince Robin Fincher to come to Mexico. But you can’t seduce anyone without knowing what they’re into. Because of the headshots in his car, I start at IMDb, where he has a comically long bio in comparison to his few credits. He moved to LA to be an actor, downgraded his dreams and worked as a stunt man, a stand-in, a crew guy, and then finally he gave up and joined the LAPD. But Robin Fincher also has a website. And it is immediately clear that he did not become an officer of the law to protect and serve. Robin Fincher became an officer of the law to get back at Hollywood for kicking him to the curb.
He crossed his IMDb-LAPD streams in 2011 when he started moonlighting as a celebrity bodyguard. He brags that he can protect you and hang out with you all at once. And yes, that phrase is trademarked. The most recent picture is of him and Teri Hatcher.
I lean back in my chair. He claimed he’s on a mission to find Delilah, California, that he cares about our girls. Well, we’ll see about that. I search for projects currently shooting in Mexico and there’s nothing but a remake of Romancing the Stone. No, I need to appeal to his obvious desire to be friends with these beautiful fucking people. I create a new e-mail account: MeganisaFox@gmail.com.
She’s the perfect bait. She has a family to protect, like Teri Hatcher. She’s hot. I learned from the Sony hack that people in this business don’t bother to spell check so here we go:
Dear Officer Fincher this is out of the blue but my friend Teri Hatcher was raving about you going bed bath and beyond to help her. I’m going to cabo and would love some extra protection. Not sure if you do this. Feel a little silly like the singer in Taken but you sound like the best ther is. We r going tomorrow can you possibly be there? Of course we will reimburse u 4 all travels. Hope u r available fingers crossed Xx megan fox
If I got an e-mail from someone claiming to be Megan Fox, I would assume it was spam. I would think someone was fucking with me. Fincher is a cop. He’s not a moron. But maybe he is because look at his fucking response, almost immediate:
Dear Ms. Fox,
WOW! I am a huge fan. I am so honored 2 help u. Yes! I am the best. Teri is the best too. I’m glad she knows I’m using personal resources to keep track of her stalker. There are so many sickos out there. I am honored 2 serve and protect. I am attaching my headshot and résumé so you know what I look like. (no objection if you want to pass it on to your agent either! I’m in SAG/AFTRA). See you tomorrow!
Wow is right. LA is a mirage. Robin Fincher is a police officer. The man carries a weapon. And we all know the stereotype of the bad cop—racist, violent—and we know the good cop—the one who pays for the poor mom’s groceries and winds up in a viral news video. But what about this cop? What about this Angeleno, the one who pushes his headshots on Megan Fucking Fox, the one who isn’t even savvy enough to maybe wait until getting to Mexico to start pimping his no-talent ass?
We need some sort of awareness program about aspirations, the way they degrade the brains of Los Angeles. I am honored 2 serve and protect. No, Robin. The word is to. No, Robin. You don’t serve or protect anyone and if you did, you’d be hunkered down over a cloudy cup of coffee, reviewing every step that Delilah ever took. Obviously, this fucker is never going to find her. And while this is good news for me, it’s also devastating for the population of the city he loves so much. We Angelenos are not served. We are not protected. The city can’t afford to look after everyone and the county is just too spread out. I would kill Fincher even if he weren’t hell-bent on putting me behind bars. I will kill him because he failed us all when he chose Megan Fucking Fox over the young dead girl, the one whose whereabouts will remain unknown, forever.
37
IT’S nine A.M. but the other passengers on The Love Boat IV are already drunk. The Quinns own four boats in Cabo and this is the one they use for fishing for marlin, which is what we’re doing, supposedly. It’s a guys go fishing while girls get mani-pedis on the cat boat arrangement. We have enough food and beer and tequila to feed fifty people, but it’s just me and Forty and Milo and a couple of guys from production whom I didn’t know all month, don’t want to know now.
I’m sitting in a plastic bucket seat holding a fishing rod and Captain Dave is telling me what Love and Forty were like when they were kids. Captain Dave is a salt-and-pepper guy who looks older than forty-six. He doesn’t have kids of his own. Some people are born to be uncles and Captain Dave is that kind of people. He’s also a recovering alcoholic who’s obsessed with what everyone else is drinking at all times. Life is hard for some people.