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It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.
— WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN
PARKING LOT
LOTUS KING SUPER BUFFETT,
2:54 PM PDT
MICK HAD TRIED CALLING the first five numbers on Bivo’s disposable cell-phone list from a payphone out front of a liquor store, but nobody picked up. He drove until he found another payphone outside the SparkleClean Laundromat and— following a vigorous disinfecting of whatever alien-goo-like substance coated the phone— took the risk of calling Bivo’s house and again, no one picked up. Mick didn’t leave a message on the answering machine because Bivo had no answering machine due to his recorded-conversation paranoia. Probably Bivo was doing his laps or was in the karaoke studio practicing for the Tickled Trout, but someone else should be picking up.
To put it mildly, Mick wasn’t digging his options: Kill some unknown guy or forget about it and have that bastard Gilchrist give the tape to Viktor.
On top of that, Mick’s prostate had started acting up so bad, he’d pissed three times in 20 minutes, and finding any toilet in the ‘Hood, let alone one not absolutely splashed in toxic bodily fluids, was not easy.
And, on top of that, Tonya had called three times about a brewing family emergency of epic proportions following her discovery of the Sri Lankan finally crossing the boob-world’s ‘sound’ barrier.
“100's, Micky, that bitch has 100 triple-M’s! And me with just my little triple-66's! How can her doctors do 100 M’s’s and mine won’t do measly little 80 T’s? I mean, can you imagine them, Micky, can you just imagine?”
Actually, Mick didn’t want to. Christ, the ramifications of breasts that size simply boggled the mind. Honestly, how do you transport a woman with boobs that big? Surely not in a standard-sized SUV.
But what Tonya said on the next call— which he took while desperately trying to pee at a filthy urinal at the Lotus King Super Buffett— what she said next plain freaked Mick out: “Oh, Micky, baby, you won’t believe this, ooo, I’m so excited! I just talked to that doctor in Vancouver, the one I showed you profiled in Modern Breasts? Well, he’s developed an experimental technique he says will give me 120 T’s! Isn’t that great? Oh, Micky, I’ll finally have the biggest, most beautiful breasts in the whole world! I’ll finally be famous!”
And Mick would need a larger vehicle than his RangeRover to haul Tonya and her new boobs around, something along the lines of a stretch-limousine. Or maybe a tractor-trailer.
Then the third call, which Mick took sitting in his truck parked out front of the Lotus King while staring off into space: “Micky baby, sugar pumpkin, I just spoke to the director for the film and told him about the procedure I’m getting and he said I have the role and no butt-sex! Isn’t that great, Micky? The big-screen debut of the biggest boobs in the world! But listen, baby, the doctor needs the hundred-thousand—
A hundred grand for boobs? Jesus Christ!
— up front and the procedure’s Friday, so borrow it from your Uncle Bivo and tell him we’ll pay him back as soon as the endorsements come in, ‘kay?”
THE MAN THAT MICK was supposed to kill lived in Dallas.
“You will go to Lindbergh Field,”Gilchrist had said, “where a private jet awaits you— oh, and you needn’t bother packing a bag as you shall be back for late supper. Once aboard, you will be given the address and a key to enter the residence, along with a pass-code to disable his alarm system. You will also be given an unregistered hand-gun— is a Glock suitable?”
Gilchrist had this way of talking, no matter what he said, Mick wanted to punch him. Blah blah blah, pow. Blah blah blah, ka boom.
“I kill him,” Mick said. “That’s it. Nothing else.”
“Actually, no. You will find a safe located in the back of a rather large freezer to which you will be given the combination. You will take with you the entire contents of the safe. After you have killed the man and secured the safe’s contents, you will arrange for the residence to look as though the man were killed in a botched robbery.”
Mick frowned. “It ain’t easy tossing a house after you whack somebody and not have it look staged. That’s a thing cops tend to notice.”
“We have someone in the local constabulary to handle that.”
“You mean the cops?”
“Indeed. Now, after you have completed your instructions, you will meet your contact at a prearranged location and there exchange the safe’s contents for the tape of Mr. Papacostas along with 100,000 dollars as payment. Questions?”
Hmmm . . . That’s boob money . . . Hmmm.
“So, would you send the tape out on the plane with me?”
“It will be taken care of.”
“Unh-hunh. So how can I trust you?”
“Mr. Smithidopolous, you need the tape. It seems you have little choice but to trust me.”
Seriously . . . Right in the kisser. . . Send this English prick straight to the moon.
Mick instead said, “Who’s the guy and what’d he do to you?”
“Yes . . . Consider it in your own best interests to know as little as possible outside what is necessary for the completion of your assignment. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you show me these tape of Bivo so I know you really have it.”
WELL, IT WASN’T GOOD. Maybe not from where the crowd was standing, but the angle of the camera, it was pretty obvious Bivo was pulling a Milli Vanilli. Now, sitting here in the Lotus King Super Buffett parking lot, Mick contemplated should he jump on the freeway and head to Lindbergh? Or just forget about it, about the killing and his karaoke crime king uncle, and call the Feds— offer himself up to Witness Protection, see how Tonya’s 66-inch rack played in a place like Goat’s Fork, Montana. Mick tried imagining Tonya getting a job in a road-side diner instead of stripping, but the image of her refilling customers’ coffee cups, maneuvering the coffee-pot around those massive breasts like a T-Rex with the little arms, it just didn’t work. And if she up-sized, she probably wouldn’t be able to get close enough to take an order without shouting.
Fact was, Mick realized that, much as he might complain, he was a big-city boy and addicted to The Life. So he returned to the filthy Lotus King bathroom and, using duct-tape, taped a hold-out pistol to the small of his back, where it would hopefully remain hidden beneath his jacket. Sure, it’d be uncomfortable on a flight all the way out to Dallas, but at least, when things got weird, he’d be armed.
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