Flipping up his collar to the rain, Ronnie saw the guy across the street marching back and forth with the sandwich board, out front of some swank French bistro that just opened. Ronnie thinking, what kind of job was that, walking back and forth in the rain? Letting the world know soup, salad, and entrée was under twenty bucks.
The Mercedes pulling up out front of the place put on its four-ways. Recognizing the black S-Class, the same one Ronnie used to drive when he chauffeured Lonzo around, his name on the vanity plate. The psycho gangster got out and looked his way, but didn’t recognize him. Lonzo fired Ronnie for losing his license to a DUI, told him he drove like an old bat anyway. Did it in front of Bobbi Lee and a few of his guys. All of them laughing except Bobbi.
With no job, Ronnie went back to his former livelihood, breaking into places, scraping up enough to pay the DUI fine. Tripping a silent alarm at this mansion in Altamont, he met two security guards as he came out, holding a pair of vases he thought were Ming. Noting the DUI on his sheet, the judge told Ronnie his grandkids played hockey in the street, then handed down twelve months, Ronnie getting out of Mission after serving six. Having to report to BC Corrections and show some guy named Maxwell a list of places where he’d applied for legit work every Friday. The system keeping him on a leash.
Standing in the rain, he watched Lonzo doing the two-step with the guy with the sandwich board, knocking him out of the way. Typical Lonzo. The women in front of him missed it, still tossing about celebrity names, one saying Ryan Gosling was dreamy.
“Asshole,” Ronnie said, watching Lonzo walk past the guy on the sidewalk with the busted sandwich board. Both women turning on Ronnie, giving him a sour look, thinking he just dissed Gosling.
“You see that?” Ronnie pointed across the street, but Lonzo was already in the restaurant, the sandwich-board guy lost from view behind the S-Class. The women clicking their teeth and turning their backs, using the umbrella to block him out, talking in hushed tones. Ronnie shrugged into his jacket, feeling the rain coming through the denim. Watching Lonzo step from the restaurant a couple of minutes later with Bobbi Lee. Tall, blond, and fine. Lonzo escorted her around the sandwich-board guy. Opening her door, Lonzo got her inside, then played the big man and slipped the sandwich-board guy a tip and gave him some words of advice, like next time get out of the fuckin’ way. Getting behind the wheel, Lonzo pulled away from the curb, the wipers swishing.
The job line moved some more, the rain picking up, water in Ronnie’s shoes making a squishing sound. Thinking screw this, but he needed to show Maxwell his list on Friday — probably have pneumonia by then. Another ten minutes before the door opened again, the recruiter sticking her head out, looking surprised it was raining and saying sorry, that was it for today. Telling the rest of the applicants they’d have to come back early tomorrow, she wished them luck and closed the door. The star remained a mystery.
“Bitch,” Ronnie said under his breath. The women ahead of him gave him another look and left.
When he got back to his flat, he stood under the shower’s spray till the hot water tank ran cold, then he revived himself with a couple cans of Cutthroat, popped a thin-crust Delissio in the oven while he eyed the classifieds, still enough time to get to the library before it closed to check for any new online job postings. Looking out the window, seeing it was still raining, he decided to stay home.
Catching an early bus back to Strathcona the next morning, he was third in line, no rain and no sign of the two women, his hands wrapped around a Starbucks, still warm by the time it was his turn.
“Have a seat,” the recruiter told him. Green-tinted hair, the ring skewering her lip looking inflamed and causing her to lisp. Reminded him of a pike he gaffed on a fishing trip back when he was a kid.
She eyed his CV. “You did time, huh?” Saying it like it was cool.
The recruiter asked the usual questions, explained the job was on-call, seven days a week. Asked if he was on any kind of medication. Told him it might involve travel. Finished up by saying, “The candidate we’re seeking must be discrete, no loose lips.”
“I’m not a snitch,” Ronnie told her, smiling.
Turning the paper over like she was looking for something, asking about college or university. Ronnie said no, guessing you needed that to fetch stuff for entertainers. She mentioned he’d have to join the Association of Celebrity Personal Assistants, asked about his temperament and how he handled somebody else’s. “Anyone ever throw anything at you, and if so, how did you resolve it?”
It sounded like these A-listers could get cranky. Ronnie thinking about it, getting a glimpse of Justin Bieber tossing something at him, a guy he could bench press.
“Mostly you just make pickups,” she said, not waiting for an answer.
“You mean the stuff they throw at me?” Smiling at her.
“Like dry cleaning, takeout, stuff like that.” Putting her clipboard down, she thanked him for coming, offered a handshake, her hand damp like she just licked her palm, saying they’d be in touch.
Going out the door, one of the two women from yesterday’s lineup brushed roughly by him as she was heading in. The same guy with a new sandwich board that said they served breakfast was pacing across the street. Ronnie guessed there was a lineup for that job too.
It was six months in, and Bobbi couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t lie there listening to the hibernating brute that lived down Lonzo’s throat, snoring like a chainsaw. The gasping and grunting thing with its wet sucking breath. Telling herself she was still in her prime, but starting to feel like she was creeping close to her best-before date.
Enough light shone through the window to show the man lying there with his head twisted to the side. Looking like somebody dropped him off a building. Bobbi thinking, God, close your mouth.
Lonzo had promised to get cleaned up the night he found her with Carmen Roth at the bistro, going pit bull on her date, then practically begging her for a second chance. To tell the truth, she kind of liked the way he just walked in and took what he wanted. Bobbi believed most men had short-man syndrome, no matter what their height. Lonzo just had it in spades, especially when he was wasted. But, true to his word, he stopped doing blow like Tony Montana. No more tapping a razor blade like it was Morse code. But the problem was, now that he was clean, Lonzo was dull and predictable. And while Little Lonzo didn’t need the blue pills to rise to the occasion so much, sex had become routine. And the snoring was getting worse.
Making up her mind a couple days ago, she came up with the plan. She wasn’t going to stick around and wait for Lonzo to fall victim to the usual hazards of his line of work. Like getting shot. Or pulling open his car door someday and bam. Chunks of Lonzo across the lawn and in the pool filter. And it could be her getting in the car, or catching one in a crossfire. Lonzo had plenty of enemies.
What really moved it along — Bobbi caught him crouching by his walk-in closet, taking out all his shoes, pulling out the bottom shelf, and lifting one of two Louis Vuitton cases hidden there. Working the combination lock, popping the latches, and grabbing a bundle of hundreds, slipping it inside his jacket. Didn’t see her watching when he put the shelf and shoes back.
The next time Lonzo went off on business, she moved the shoes and the shelf, lifting the matching Louis Vuittons one at a time, shaking them, wondering how much cash was in them. Trying different lock combinations on the cases — his birthday, phone number, address — coming up with nothing. Driving herself crazy. Betting one was packed with American, the other with euros, Lonzo covering his ass either way, depending which way he had to run when the time came.