William wished that he had stayed asleep. Then his mind flashed to Lundin and he prayed that she was not upstairs dying. William stared at the ceiling, silent as instructed by Justice.
Well alright, William thought. My gun is in the bedroom, so I couldn’t get to it before this idiot shot me and then Boopsie. Maybe, I could back him into the door and rush out the house and force him to chase me to protect Lundin. Fuck!
William nixed that scenario. It would have failed. Even had the police arrived, they would have shipped William to the looney-bin. Surely, he had to be a struggling writer suffering from a psychotic episode brought on by his creativity to create publicity wherever he could get it.
One cop would have said, “Sure, buddy, your fictional protagonist jumped right off the computer screen with the goal of becoming your unusual antagonist.”
His partner would laugh, and hysterically chime in, “It’s not new, though. Stephen King’s characters do it all the time. In fact, we have an APB out for Alex Cross. Apparently, he’s trying to kill James Patterson for having him face near death experiences so often.”
They would encourage Lundin to have him committed for 72-hours of observation. He should be able to grab enough material from the mental ward to cure his writer’s block for life. And if they added the media, he could do a press conference from the ward, too.
Then it dawned on William that that was if he was alive. There would be a different story if he was dead. There would be a murder scene with no investigative powers to find a credible motive or suspect. He had helped Justice vanish. The policemen of West Hollywood haven’t had a murder on their watch in eons, he thought.
William felt like Dorothy being blown into the Land of Oz. Only he was not fighting to make it down the yellow brick road to a wish-granting wizard. He heard the growl of the lightening and the rain beating on the windows. It seemed that the rain spoke to him. “Take control of your home,” it said.
William scanned Justice from head-to-toe. He searched and strove to persuade himself that Justice Lorenzo was of no physical threat. Justice was like a nagging five-year-old that forced William to engage in an annoying game of hide and seek. William had sat in on too many police and military trainings not to be able to fend off that goon. He had never had to inflict injury on anyone, but for sure, he knew how too. And would. His heart raced with approval to end his silence. Who the hell was Justice to silence him?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” William hissed without being told to speak.
“Watch your tone before I make it impossible to move your lips sans the help of a nurse.” Justice stared at William and crazily cocked his head to the side. “Or maybe I could scream obscenities and wake Lundin. Yeah, I think I’ll...” Justice continued, and opened his mouth to yell.
“No, please,” William pleaded. “Don’t!”
“That’s better. Not sincere, though. But, better,” Justice said, and moved toward the kitchen. “Let’s move into the family room. I mean it must be nice to have one. Mine had been left behind. Do you know the feeling of being without a family, William? No, because fortunately, you have one,” he commented with an evil look plastered on his face.
“What do you want? I am working on a script, yet you keep putting your foot on my damn neck and suffocating me. I should abandon the whole project.”
“You should abandon using the words abandon and project in a sentence. At least around me. I do not blame you for the foolish comment, though. It’s not your fault. I blame the sloppy modern education. Recant the statement.” Justice demanded.
“Recant?” William chuckled.
Justice groped in his trench coat and revealed a pistol. He raised the weapon and placed it gently on William’s forehead. He pulled the trigger and the barrel rotated. No bullet exited the weapon. William tactically pushed Justice’s arm out of his face with his right arm as he had been taught. Only he was kicked forcefully in the abdomen before he heard Lundin move to the edge of the loft. Thoughtfully, Justice disappeared into the kitchen, which was beneath the loft, and out of her view.
Naked she leaned over the loft. Her perfect breasts suspended in the air, she looked at William puzzled.
“Sleep walking?” She asked, groggily. “Talking in your sleep.”
“Acting,” he said and paced the floor.
“So, it’s no longer writer? You’re an actor now?” she asked, standing straight, her hands sarcastically on her waist line.
He glanced at Justice in the kitchen, who mockingly pointed at William with a cupped hand over his mouth. He was laughing sadistically.
“No, Boopsie,” he said, and threw punches and kicks in the air in Justice’s direction. “Writer acting out a scene to be written.”
“Whose going to have a fight?” she asked, turning to grab her robe. She exposed her naked ass and William could not get aroused.
“Me and Justice, right now,” he told her. “Literally!”
“Oh, really?” she asked, and pulled the robe tight to her curves.
Justice gave William a signature American presidential wave and disappeared. Frightfully, William raced after him, but calmed to see Justice leaving the loft. William bolted to the door, locked it, and met Lundin at the bottom of the loft stairs. She hung her robe on the bathroom door and sat on the toilet, as William leaned on the bathroom door.
“That was not the first time that I heard you talking to him in your sleep,” Lundin told him.
William did not have to ask who he was. “Really?” he asked, feigning disbelief. “What have I been saying?”
“Just things about, or to Justice. Like he’s harassing you or something,” she said, and finished her business. She washed her hands and then threw her robe on. “Maybe all of the criminals that you’ve put away or killed in fiction are coming back for revenge,” she joked, taking a draught of mouth wash.
“I don’t know,” he said, taking the mouth wash bottle from her hand taking her lead. “It’s something. I feel like Justice is in my mind when I am writing. As if he’s telling me what to write,” he said, following her into the living room. “It’s like he’s writing the manuscript and not me.”
“That tends to happen with writers, right? I suppose, I’m right. You have to live what the characters live to stay true to them as you write. He’ll be done with soon and then you need a break. He has you thinking about your parents and that’s something that I could not get you to do.”
“I’m telling you. But the vacation sounds like a plan. We can move into our Malibu home and lay up for a month. No writing or modeling.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“Babe, you have no idea. It’s almost like I was a criminal in a former life and all of those stories are being told through me. It’s scary.”
“You need therapy, with your crazy ass.”
“Maybe, but it’s too late to be talking about a damn manuscript,” he told her and pulled her close. “You’re the one with the crazy ass,” he said and squeezed her backside.
He laid his back on the arm of the sofa and Lundin spun around. She rested her back on his chest, and he rested his hands on her breasts. The two of them became one.
William did not immediately fall asleep. He knew what he had to do, and soon he would take care of Justice.
And Justice for all.
THIRTY-ONE
Stop being so damn cowardly, William thought to himself. He was tired of Justice renting space in his life. Why was he so damn afraid to off him? He was bent over the keyboard, and perspired without direction. It was not writer’s block, either. He was afraid that he would do something very dangerous in the manuscript. Picking up the lap top and smashing it against the wall seemed the perfect anecdote to unlock his mind. There was no one to stop such a shenanigan. Similarly, there was no one to stop him from writing what he wanted. Who the fuck is Justice Lorenzo?
Surprisingly, he pulled his eyes from the computer monitor. He paused to explore a portrait of Lundin hanging
in his home office. She was at the back of a Victoria Secret runway show. He wondered what she would say if he told her the truth about Justice. William vowed to Jewel to have a final draft submitted to her in two weeks. He had no idea how to rid himself of Justice; in a real world per se. In the story he could think of a million ways to raise an axe to the pain in the ass. After he did that--and he would--he planned to rest his mind for a month as he promised Lundin. He would come back and write a romantic comedy. During the break, he thought of losing his anonymity and coming out of the literary closet. He would do something insane, so that the media would find out and put two-and-two together. He had to do something, because he could not continue to flaunt his writing prose on Justice to gain entry into the literary gang.
Mr. Fortune, high profile masked writer of media interest, re-read the words on the computer screen and the words proved why. He began to type, determined to become legendary:
The hotel room gradually came into focus as the sun crept over the horizon. Justice’s eyes opened at the new day dawning. He blinked and massaged his eyes until they stayed open. The alarm clock read 5:58 a.m.
He was in the hotel room alone. Alimu-Shine and Amir were still out clubbing. He had too much on his mind to bounce around a club, as if he was not a wanted man. Anything could go wrong. The club could get raided. He didn’t want any inadvertent situations to cause his capture. Hell, no. He would make the feds find him. Mauve Miller and the federal clan had forced him to mature overnight and solidly analyze his future. Justice was quite fine that his pals enjoyed their lives, as he pouted in a hotel suite. He had no desire to exchange unwanted pleasantries with a drove of strangers.
He ran across the bed to his cell phone. Three missed booty calls. He dialed Chemical Bank to obtain his account available balance. The computerized voice told him that he had: $15,965.00. The entire day flashed before his eyes, as a movie played on the big screen. He loved the movie that he watched.
His mind was in full swing. He needed to get his body right, too, so he headed to the hotel gym.
He ran on the treadmill and his mother crossed his mind. His running from the feds would strain their already trashy relationship. Justice stopped the treadmill and looked into the mirrors surrounding him. He would make his mother proud somehow. How, he had yet to figure out.
He inspected himself in the mirror. Am I that bad? What’s happening to me? Why am I the family outcast? Why was I the family’s jail bird? He could not answer those questions. He had gotten more of a mental work out than a physical one, so he headed back to the room.
He found the party animals there, and growled a hello to them as he marched into the bathroom. Inside he showered, shaved, and dumped his stomach. He exited the bathroom and sat on the bed. He looked at the two men. They sported bags under their eyes and a general look of weariness. He felt sorry for them. He inspected them from head-to-toe and he wanted to be away from them. Not later. Then!
He did not want to let them in on his little escape plan. And definitely not the big one. Justice was going to become a grown man and not pretend to be one. He had to. He should get his money. Hide it. Turn himself in and live happily ever after upon release. That would be justice.
He dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black and gray tie, and wing tips. He filled a briefcase with all of the documents that he needed and told the party goers, “Good luck, and see you when I return.”
The hotel door closed behind him, and Alimu-Shine and Amir made eye contact.
“What the fuck is the deal with that cat?” Amir asked.
“He’s in his own world. Stressed the fuck out.”
“He didn’t say a word,” Amir said, forlornly.
“Don’t sweat that. He is thinking about leaving everything behind. Family. Us. It’s all too much for him. I am going to turn you onto another crafty move today. Go get your money and meet me back here, so that I can put you on,” Alimu-Shine said, and laced his shoes.
“What does that entail?”
“You’ll see. Be back here ‘round eleven. We do lunch and this new business.”
“What about, J?”
“I’ll let him know, too. He’s not a morning cat, plus he is stressed. Do not let him bother you, homey. He will bounce back as soon as he gets that money in his hands. Trust me, he is capable of taking care of himself. He is a master of controlling a situation. Believe me, he’s cool. Just handle your business and meet me back here by 11.”
Justice stood outside the hotel room and heard the entire conversation.
William was on to something, he thought, as he typed the last word. That was a start, but he had no idea what he would do next. The idea of re-writing his manuscript began to sicken him all over again. He could not imagine how he was going to dispose of Justice. He continued to brood: If you be nice and not fuck with me between now and me submitting my last manuscript to Jewel Blacksmith, you may live to see the sequel. You think that I am playing, Mr. Lorenzo. Try me!
The phone rang and jolted him back from his trip to that place only authors go. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Jewel and he ignored her. She had no idea that after this manuscript he was breaking his contract with her and he would wiggle out of it without her protest. She ought not complain after her negligence.
* * *
That night Lundin fixed Greek feta-stuffed chicken. After dinner, he picked up the trash bag and took it to the trash dump behind the stores. And there it was: the climax to his manuscript, or at least the blueprint.
If Justice thought that he would get away with further harassing him, he was wrong. The next day, after he slept on it, William planned to deal with Justice, and the event unfolding before his eyes would help him. William stared into the air and watched a rare shot of a police helicopter in West Hollywood engaged in a manhunt. Am I in South Central, he thought. Police cars dashed pass him on Robertson and he heard them in the nearby blocks search for someone. He went back into the loft before he was targeted or profiled.
He sat on the sofa and turned on Channel 9. Flanking the police helicopter he saw the news chopper and wanted to see if they had a live feed of the unfolding drama. They did not.
He called Lundin over to him and asked her what would be the scariest way for her to die?
She looked at him weirdly, and that was how he felt, too.
“If you’re tired of me, just tell me to leave. You do not have to kill me,” she breathed in his ear as she ran her hand down his chest.
“Actually, I killed you last night in the bed. And the night before that,” he said, and ran his index finger around her nipple. He then whispered, “And the night before that.”
“Good. How about I kill you tonight, and the next, and the next,” she replied and kissed his cheek.
“That sounds nice.”
“Okay, this is where you sleep tonight,” she said, and tapped the sofa. “Right there, buddy. Yes! I am sure that’ll kill you.”
“No, no, no,” he said. “I recant that. Let’s get back to the topic at hand. What would frighten you to death?”
“Probably drowning or fire.”
“Like drowning with a weight tied to your ankle and you dropped in the middle of the frozen Bering Sea?”
She gave him a loving shove. “You really trying to murder me?”
“Not you, Boopsie. Justice Lorenzo. Literally,” he said, smiling. They both laughed for their own reasons. She definitely had no clue how badly he wanted to kill Justice Lorenzo.
“Really. Why are you taking it there? That means no sequel.”
“Nope. And I have to. What about torture?”
“So much has been done.”
“True, but they say you can kill in a million ways.”
“You could bury someone in a coffin alive.”
“That’s old school. And that is a movie, “Buried Alive”. It had a sequel, too.”
“But wait! In a clear coffin. Imagine the mental torture, pain and agony of being handcuffed a
nd gagged as you’re lowered into the ground and then faded to black as dirt is poured over you.”
“You’re sick,” he said laughing, and jumped away from her.
“It’s creative. Wickedly creative. Don’t trip, though. I don’t have the balls to do that.”
“I hope that you don’t have balls at all,” he said and laughed some more. He had to stay lighthearted.
“I don’t. I was thinking, what if you were lowered and you were forced to watch your family being told about your untimely death on a portable TV?”
“You’re the devil.”
“I know, so don’t fuck with me!”
THIRTY-TWO
Morning could not have been more chipper for William Fortune. Greek philosopher Heraclitus could not have been more right: In the world that we inhabit, no two days are alike. A simple change in temperature could change a mood. An extremely hot day was sure to bring an irritable cloud over everyone. But a cool day like that day meant that people would be just that: Cool. Which was what William was at the moment, he made a crucial decision.
No need to wonder why he decided to enjoy a day at Santa Monica Beach to continue his manuscript. It was nice to get out of the office. He had the life. How many professionals could work from the beach?
He packed a picnic basket with club sandwiches, palatable pastries and a variety of drinks. He loaded the basket, his brief case and himself into his BMW and set out for the beach.
William sped to the beach amazingly calm. That was a relief. He had seen and done a lot alone, but he needed to write around people for some strange reason. He could not fight the feelings that he felt. He battled fear, mostly. Fear that the media would bash him relentlessly. Each time that he neared the end of a story, he felt the same fear.
He loathed murdering his novel antagonist. He loathed arresting them, as well. Strangely, he treated them as real people, so in considering that he wouldn’t kill in real life, he disliked doing it via fiction. Right at that moment, he did not have feeling. He was glad that the end of the manuscript had arrived. He was anxious to kill that time. He parked his luxury vehicle and composed himself. His greed for murder needed to be dumped to the back of his mind.