I can tell that he’s in a bar. I hate alcoholics like that, the ones who want to be near liquor. And I know his kind. I bet he goes to this fucking bar every day, just to prove that he’s sober. “Dave,” I say. “I’m asking you to work with me here. My buddy is out cold. You know, he lost his room key, he can’t even remember the name of his hotel.”
“I’m sure Love would let him stay at La Groceria,” he says.
“Love hates him,” I say. “So that’s really not an option.”
“Well, then I guess you’re gonna have to get your buddy a hotel room,” he says. “Cath can get you a list of your best options.”
“Captain Dave,” I plead. “We’re just talking about one night.”
He sighs. “I remember when my ex-wife fell off the wagon. She said, ‘Dave, I only had one drink.’” He sighs again. “Rules are rules, Joe. Good luck.”
He hangs up on me and the line is dead. Fuck. Fucking AA slave with his O’Doul’s and his restraint and his desire to impart the rules on me, same way he gave it all up to God as if he doesn’t sit here every day, all day, just wanting a beer, just a taste.
I thought money was power. Isn’t that how this godforsaken world is supposed to work? Captain Dave does what I say because Love chose me? I pace. I don’t have the money to get my own boat and I can’t very well leave Fincher in a fucking house. I learned my lesson: You clean up. You get rid of the body. You don’t leave a mug of piss, let alone a cop’s corpse. But what the fuck to do?
Fuck Dave. He was supposed to say, yes, sir and Cath was supposed to be wrong and I was supposed to call a cab, request a wheelchair, get to the marina, grab the keys from Dave. I can’t believe I didn’t make a backup plan. I have a two-hundred-pound failed character actor in a soundproof box and right now, he’s pissing himself in his sleep.
Love texts: hello? ☹
I twisted my ankle on the run home. That’s my story anyway. I took Tylenol, which is why I’m not drinking, and I’m limping and I’m not myself. Love insists that I come to the Office with everyone even though I’m a mess. She won’t take no for an answer, and the Office is surreal, a bar on the beach, in the sand. We sit at a long table. A tsunami could take us at any moment and Love tells me to relax.
“This is Mexico,” she says. “You can get beheaded or kidnapped or shot or mugged or swept away by a riptide, but come on, Joe. A tsunami?” She laughs. “I don’t think so. Though I appreciate your imagination.”
That’s my dark little girl and I look out at the Pacific that took Delilah so completely, so willingly. She helps me even when she doesn’t know it. Mexico is the murder capital of the world, the land of shallow graves and dead bodies. Fuck you, ocean. Fuck you, Captain Dave. I don’t need a boat. All I need is a shovel.
38
LOVE got drunk at the Office. I left her in bed along with a note that my ankle was feeling better so I went for a walk to stretch it out. She’ll never know that I left at 4:42 A.M. or that I stopped off at that big house, the one where they’re doing the most construction. None of the workers were there yet and I roamed around the lot, checking out the nails, and planks of wood, the slabs of marble, the cement mixers. I went around back and saw that they’re building an infinity pool. And it wasn’t the worst idea, Fincher resting, in infinity.
But now that I’m at Axl’s house, I know I have to do better. This is rock ’n‘ roll. This is time frozen and so many people out there have so many keys. Fincher has to stay here. I can’t be dragging him all over the neighborhood. I mean, yes, it’s Mexico but Mexico is like LA. There are so many different parts of it. This isn’t the area where you can casually behead people and drop them off in a neighboring pool. I have to be discreet. I’ll be sweating today because of that fucker. For now though, it’s time for him to learn a lesson. I’m rummaging through his duffel bag. The contents alone are reason enough to kill him. He brought headshots and five-pound weights and condoms and Jimmy Buffett T-shirts (tags on, asshole) and banana hammocks. Didn’t he get the memo that this was work? But that’s not even the bad part. The bad part is that Robin Fincher keeps an old-fashioned secretarial Rolodex of celebrity encounters. I’m serious. He bought this thing at Staples and I can just picture him in line on his day off. This Rolodex is jammed with home addresses of famous people. When I get back to LA, I can now visit Cruise, Tom if I want or my latest alter-ego, Fox, Megan. And again I say, that’s not even the bad part. Turn over an index card, and shit gets real.
Fincher clearly started this project ten years ago, when he joined the force. Some of his references are dated—Pattinson, Robert. Told him that I loved Water for Elephants and that he and Reese seem like they’re meant for each other. He seemed like the real deal, salt of the earth, more British than you expect him to be. Tell agent to send him reel.
Yes, Fincher has dutifully catalogued his celebrity encounters, all of which happened while he was supposed to be protecting and serving. He has a simple routine. He pulls over celebrities to talk to them and kiss ass. Sometimes his notes are self-interested—Piven, J. Pulled over for jaywalking. Friendly, funny. They say he’s a jerk but he was cool to me. Seemed genuine. Says to call his manager next week. Says he has a feeling about me, says I need new headshots.
Sometimes his notes are sad—Aniston, Jennifer. Said thank you for letting her know about robberies in neighborhood. Told me to stay hydrated. Sweet!
And sometimes they’re downright disturbing, like when he told Adams, Amy that someone ran over the neighbor-up-the-street’s dog.
So you get the idea. Robin Fincher, who alleges to be so protective of California, is in fact, a level ten Celebrity Stalker. I turn on the microphone.
“Hey,” I say. “Wake up.”
I can be loud when I need to be and Fincher rolls over and sits up and blinks. When he sees me, he bolts for the glass. He bounces off it, then, undeterred, body slams it again and again. I put my feet up and ignore him and continue to work my way through his Rolodex. The idiot is so busy trying to shatter unbreakable glass that he doesn’t even seem to realize that I found his secret stash. When he finally exhausts himself and kneels on the floor panting, I turn on the mic again.
“Sit up,” I say. “Well, first pick up the microphone. Then sit.”
He takes the microphone and he hasn’t learned anything yet. He starts by ranting at me that he’s a cop—as if I didn’t know this—that he’s an American—as if I’m not—that he’s gonna see to it that I wind up behind bars—as if he’s in a position to do this.
“Listen to me,” I say. “It’s not too late to make things right.”
His nostrils flare. “Where’s Meg?”
Wow. I don’t respond to that, it’s too fucking pathetic. I pick up a card from his Rolodex. “I’m gonna ask you a question.”
“She’s supposed to be here,” he says, not listening.
“Fincher,” I interrupt. “I’m Megan Fox.”
He storms the glass again and I have to let him work it out, kick, punch, kick. He settles down, screams. When I think that’s it for now, I continue. “As I was saying, you can make things right by telling the truth. It’s pretty simple. I just want you to explain some of your choices.”
When he ticketed me for jaywalking, Robin Fincher repeatedly reminded me that I had made a choice to jaywalk. And he’s right. I did. But now I know that he made a lot of bad choices himself.