Tristan had been wide awake since daybreak and lay there staring at the mildew stains on the plasterboard walls. After their surveillance of Kessler the night before, he’d completely lost control of Jerzy, and he was peeved every time he thought of how the dumb peckerwood threatened to throw him out of his own car unless Tristan let him go “back home to his woman.” And what was his home anyway? Just a shitty little two-bedroom house in Frogtown that Jerzy shared with a woman who was uglier than Shrek, and her four miserable brats.
If he had someone else he could use to help execute the vague plan he was formulating, he’d drop Jerzy in the time it took to make the call to tell him that his bitch looked like she belonged on WrestleMania, and that he’d take a bath in a tub of bleach if he had to sleep with that old hose bag. But he couldn’t do that, and they were scheduled to meet Kessler at 5 P.M. back at the pest-infested duplex/office, where Tristan was supposed to tell him about the interesting new idea he had. The fact that he had no ideas at all wasn’t of concern; it was how to handle Kessler after they informed the man that they were his new partners. The fact was, a little muscle might be needed to quiet Kessler down, and that was the main reason he needed the big Polack.
Kessler had been a letdown in any case. Tristan hadn’t made $1,000 total in the weeks he’d been a runner, so even if the plan didn’t work, he had very little to lose. His scheme was going to involve fast-talking and finesse, and that required his talents. Still, he wished he had one more ace to play. That’s why he decided to return to Kessler’s apartment today when he was certain the man would be away from it.
At 10 A.M., Tristan Hawkins was at a T-shirt shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where a non-English-speaking Guatemalan embroidered “Department of Water and Power” across a baseball cap that Tristan bought at the shop. For another $25 the Guatemalan stitched the same lettering across the pocket of the gray work shirt that Tristan had brought with him.
Just before noon, Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was sitting in his car in the parking lot of an electronics supply house in the San Fernando Valley, working a pair of runners who were purchasing three wireless $1,799 Dell computers with bogus checks that Eunice had printed, along with altered ID that Tristan had stolen on one of his forays to the Gym-and-Swim.
His Jakob Kessler cell chimed, and he picked up and said in his German accent, “Jakob Kessler speaking.”
“It’s Creole, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said.
“Yes, Creole, what is it?”
“I just wanted you to know we might be a couple minutes late for our five-o’clock meet.”
Sounding annoyed, Dewey asked, “What is the problem, Creole?”
“I’m workin’ a deal this afternoon for you, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said. “If it goes like I think it will, I’ll have some good stuff for you.”
What time, then?”
“Five thirty?”
“All right, five thirty sharp.”
“We’ll be there,” Tristan said. “By the way, where are you now?”
Suspiciously, Dewey said, “Why do you want to know?”
“We could meet you in the next hour if you’re anywheres near Hollywood.”
“No, I am not near Hollywood. I shall see you at five thirty.”
When he snapped shut his cell phone, Tristan smiled. He thought he could hear traffic in the background and was certain that the man was not at his apartment on Franklin Avenue. But twenty minutes later, Tristan was.
He was wearing the Water and Power baseball cap with his dreads tucked under, as well as the newly embroidered work shirt. And he had a clipboard in his hand with official-looking documents attached to it. He rang the gate phone of the old woman he’d conned last time.
He recognized the same raspy voice when she said, “Hello, who is it?”
“Department of Water and Power,” Tristan said. “We’re replacin’ meters and need access, please.”
The old woman said, “Call the manager. She’s in number one-three-two.”
“I know that,” Tristan said, “but there’s no answer. I’m just goin’ down the list, and you’re the first one to answer.”
“Oh, all right,” the old woman said. “Are you going to have to come into my apartment?”
“No, ma’am,” Tristan said. “We’ll only need access to the meters.”
The gate buzzer sounded, and the lock clicked open. Tristan entered, climbed the familiar stairway, and was standing at the door of the last apartment on the left, number 313.
He rang and waited twenty seconds before ringing again, and he felt sure that someone was looking at him through the brass peephole.
The door opened a few inches, and Eunice said, “Yes?”
He saw bloodshot blue eyes and gray-blonde tangles of hair, and she reeked of tobacco smoke.
“Department of Water and Power, ma’am,” Tristan said with his most winning smile and taking great care with his diction and grammar. “Have you experienced a power surge today?”
“No,” Eunice said. “Why?”
“We’re havin’ trouble with the load on this street,” Tristan said. “People have reported computers crashin’ for no apparent reason, and we’re checkin’ with every resident we can. Do you have a computer?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Would you please turn it on and see if it’s okay?”
“My computers are working fine,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive,” she said.
“Okay, then, sorry to have bothered you.”
When he walked away, he was excited. She had more than one computer. His hunch had been correct. She worked out of Kessler’s crib. This woman was either a hired hand or his bitch, but for sure she was also his geek. Yes!
Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was angry at himself after he paid off his shopping runner, a young aspiring actor, full-time parking valet, and part-time thief. The kid had talked Dewey into waiting for him outside Chateau Marmont by claiming that within one hour, he could enter the hotel and talk a wealthy female vacationer into buying him a drink in the bar, where he would collect all the information from her credit card without her knowledge. He claimed that he’d even obtain her driver’s license information and checkbook account number. Dewey, who felt sleep-deprived, remained in his car, eventually snoozing. After an hour, he awoke and entered the hotel bar but found no sign of his runner. He figured the bragging little sociopath had probably hooked up with a rich vacationer of either gender and was up in the room fulfilling their Hollywood fantasies.
Thinking of that handsome, young aspiring actor made him remember that he was to meet the other good-looking kid at the office. However, it would be difficult, now that he had to be Jakob Kessler with Tristan and Jerzy, and he would have little time to turn into Bernie Graham. It was at moments like these that he wondered if the elaborate disguises were worth it. But if not, it would mean that Eunice was right again, and that was too hard for Dewey to accept. He decided to leave the hotel and go straight home, become Jakob Kessler, and gather the things he’d need to turn Kessler into Bernie Graham. Then he got on the cell and rang the kid he knew as Clark.
Malcolm was on his lunch break when the cell rang.
“Clark,” Dewey said, “this is Bernie Graham.”
“I hope you’re not gonna change our appointment again, Mr. Graham. I need the work now. I can’t wait any longer.”
“I just need to push it back an hour,” Dewey said. “Meet me at the address I gave you at six o’clock instead of at five. I’ll put you to work tonight, and you can start earning some spending money right away.”
“Six o’clock,” Malcolm said. “At the office.”
“Right, but like I told you, it’s not really an office. It’s an apartment that we use for meetings and other things.”