TEN
VOICES IN THE NIGHT
After dinner, Torrance let Kendall use his computer to check his email. The service provider wasn’t coming until Tuesday afternoon. Kendall would be cut off from Sunday until then unless he wanted to drive to a cyber-café. It was a blessing. He could get some work done. Facebook was as addictive as coke.
Kendall returned to his strange new house and settled in the library with his books. There was a drawing board in the spare bedroom in the den, but he didn’t feel like drawing. He found a legal pad and made notes about his character, Cheap Shot. Cheap Shot wasn’t exactly a superhero.
DIRTY DEEDS DONE DIRT CHEAP!
Have you been the victim of a scam, assault, or other crime? Unable to gain satisfaction through the judicial system? I will tackle any reasonable case if your cause is just. Fully bonded and insured. Pick up the phone. I’m always home. Just call me anytime.
Kendall rummaged through his CDs. He’d stored them alphabetically and labeled each box. He found AC/DC and slipped it in the Sony, filling the room with heavy metal. Kendall wanged air guitar. When the song ended, he turned the machine off and slumped in his chair with a whoosh of escaping air.
Who is Cheap Shot? An inventive former Special Ops/Green Beret/Seal Team Six type down on his luck who hangs his shingle in Pinkerton, inspired by his heroes, the Scarlet Pimpernel and Travis McGee.
Little lady comes to him. The city is using Eminent Domain to foreclose on her house—the house she’s lived in all her life—so that it can build a golf course. Kendall envisioned her as a cross between Mammy Yokum and Katy Jurado. Mrs. Peabody. Widow. Her late husband a forgotten war hero.
On the other side, you had Mayor Paloma Bologna whose wife’s brother has designed the golf course for an outrageous sum. The more Cheap Shot looks into Mayor Bologna, the more dirt he finds. The dude’s into child prostitution, drugs, and bootleg designer goods. But how do you get to the mayor when he’s guarded 24/7 by The Sizzler, a monstrous, eight-foot man/robot encased entirely in titanium who can zap you with a hundred thousand volts?
Kendall wanted to do it straight, but funny. There would be tons of inside jokes, but the basic story would be credible, and it must never descend into burlesque. Kendall looked up. It was past ten. He had eight pages of notes.
He went to bed. Kendall slept in his skivvies. He had no use for robes. The strangeness of the house radiated through him, the unfamiliar odors, the sounds, and silences. In his old house, he could hear the kitchen refrigerator while lying in bed. Not here. He felt the immense space around him; the sheer profligacy of it. And in Los Angeles! He worried he’d bought too much house. Mark Twain said that houses had been the ruin of more writers than drink or marriage.
Lucky Kendall wasn’t a writer. He dreamt he was with Shirley at a house party. They got separated, and a woman took him by the hand. She had a fantastic body but the head of a werewolf. “I want you inside me, Kendall,” she whispered, leading him from room to room. Every room was occupied. Kendall wasn’t sure he could get it up with that werewolf head. Suddenly there was a shout.
Kendall shot awake panting. For an instant, he was disoriented. Everything felt strange. Then he saw the soft glow from the art deco lighting in the bathroom and realized he was in his new home.
But the echo of the shout remained in his ears.