CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2021
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Chapter 42

Jacob drove lazily away from the stately white marble mansion, heading down the winding country road to the estate's front gate. He was in high spirits, having just achieved the goal he had set out to accomplish; getting the phone number of an upper-echelon, top-gun professional assassin from his old friend, the famous movie mogul Steven Schidtberger.

It had been a risky undertaking; very risky indeed. Schidtberger had introduced Jacob to the rather genteel-looking man at a party, and had made some joking allusions as to the man's line of work. Jacob had immediately snapped to attention, as he was always looking for another goon; they came in handy sometimes, and he never knew when he might need to find one quick. Making small talk, Jacob gradually found out more about the man's capabilities; he had realized right away that this was definitely no small-time, John Boot idiot. As the man got drunker and more talkative, he had made allusions to the fawning Jacob that he was involved in the recent assassination of a well-known politician, which had been much talked about on all of the news stations. Jacob had been extremely impressed.

By and by, as they stood drinking and talking, a beautiful girl had come up and embraced the hit-guy, and he had responded lovingly. Jacob assumed that it was his girlfriend, since the man had mentioned that he wasn't married; after being introduced, he had quickly bid goodbye to his new contact and his lovely friend, and gone about his socializing. But he hadn't been able to get the guy's phone number; he had meant to, but the man and his squeeze had left the party early. So he had been forced to go ask for his phone number from Schidtberger, who would definitely have it; Schidtberger had everything on everybody.

If Schidtberger had suspected the reason Jacob suddenly wanted this particular guy's number, he would only have had to wait for the crime to occur to be sure; then there would be someone else in on the plot. Jacob wanted to avoid that at all costs, so he had devised a way to get the phone number in an offhand, casual way, by making up a story that he had met the hitman's girlfriend, had fallen in lust with her and wanted to try to schmooze the guy, to gain access to her. Schidtberger had immediately fallen for the lie, the idiot, and had given Jacob the number after asking only a few dumb questions; it had been as easy as taking candy from a baby.

Jacob began whistling a happy tune as he approached the front gate; his friend, Brandon the gateman, was already grinning in anticipation of his arrival.

"So... did he have any good weed this time? I know he did!" said Brandon, with a smirk.

Jacob leered back at the dolt. "Yeah, you know he always does! But he just keeps it for guests now... he's too old to smoke it anymore, poor guy. But I'm not! I'm high as a kite, meself, Brandon old boy... now how about opening up that gate for me right now, eh?"

"Ok bossman, you got it," said Brandon, as he punched a button on his desk. The gate quickly swung open, and Jacob started to drive away, then abruptly stepped on the brakes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a jar of fine marijuana flowertops that Schidtberger had given to him. Tearing off a large bud, Jacob waved it in the air. "Here, Brandon!" he said, throwing it at him. Then he stepped on the gas and rocketed forward, laughing as he watched Brandon in his rearview mirror, scampering after the little gift.

Accelerating down the country road, Jacob headed back towards Westview where he was due to meet his closest friends, Waffle and Bill Bronsky, at Waffle's large, luxurious penthouse apartment. They were going to do some serious drinking, it being Saturday night, and Jacob was already feeling good -- even with no alcohol in him yet. It was just one of those beautiful days; he had accomplished something gratifying, and it had been easy. Now he was going to reward himself with one hell of a night on the town, and get drunk as a skunk with his good buddies.

Jacob was on a roll, and life was good. Soon it would be even better.

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Waffle Shimmerman leaned back in his chair, holding his empty glass and surveying the room. Bill Bronsky was still lying on the large pool table where he had passed out earlier, silent as a mouse. Waffle's best friend Jacob was also unconscious in the easy chair he'd collapsed in, after they had returned to Waffle's penthouse to wrap up another glorious bout of wild partying. He was feeling good... a little bit prematurely hung over, but still good; it had been another wonderful, upper-crust night on the town. But something was starting to bother Waffle...

After Bronsky had crashed out, sprawled across the pool table, Jacob had very drunkenly revealed something that Waffle was sure he hadn't meant to; something diabolical. In a state of half-consciousness, he had groggily mumbled something about a murder plot involving professional mobsters; a plot against a guy they both despised like right-wing Longfellows: the now very popular Carlos Fontana. Right before falling asleep, he had murmured to Waffle that their friend Stephen Schidtberger had set him up with a guy that was going to blow Fontana right off the fucking stage, while he was playing. Waffle believed Jacob, and had approved; after all, this Fontana creep had stolen off with a beautiful Usher girl -- no, the most beautiful Usher girl. A girl that Jacob had had his eye on for a long time, a girl he had helped and nurtured; this insane girl had turned down Jacob, Jacob Rosenberg, for a small-time Mayinkan loser who had suddenly, by some bizarre work of black sorcery, become a bigtime winner. It had been a humiliating defeat, and Jacob had every right to hate his ugly Mayinkan guts, and even to have him eradicated. That part hadn't bothered Waffle in the least.

What was keeping Jacob up was Bill Bronsky, the big dumb buck asleep on his pool table. After Jacob had revealed his plot to Waffle and then passed out, Bronsky had grunted, and said something under his breath... in his sleep, Waffle had thought. But now he wasn't so sure... and the more he pondered it, the uneasier he felt.

If Jacob wanted to have Fontana killed, it was quite alright with Waffle; he hated Fontana too, despite the fact that Fontana had never done anything to Waffle, except ignore his music. Waffle's friends in The Usher Eyes had jokingly told him that Fontana, who was in the habit of turning his radio off after a song finished (so as to avoid having some jerk announcer ruin the song for him), always switched off the radio shortly after one of Waffle's songs came on. He never even listened to them, let alone bought them; a scathing insult, and it was done unintentionally. No, Waffle didn't care one way or another if Fontana lived or died.

But he did care about his best friend... and himself. If Bronsky had been conscious, or even semi-conscious, and had heard Jacob reveal his plot to Waffle, and if Jacob went through with this plot, then Bronsky might not only figure out that Jacob was behind Fontana's murder -- he would know that Jacob had told Waffle about his plan, and that Waffle had not told the police about it. Waffle knew that would make him an accomplice to premeditated murder... it was a sobering thought, and Waffle didn't want to be sober right now.

Waffle slowly rose up from his comfortable easy chair, and began stumbling towards the door of the pool room; if he could make it to his bed, it would be better than finding himself in a chair, even a very comfortable one, when he woke up with a hang-over the next morning.

He turned to take one last look at Bronsky. The big ox was still lying motionless, completely unconscious, it seemed. He probably would not remember anything that happened after they left the last club; he never did. Waffle was just going to go to bed, and assume that Bronsky had been too drunk to register on what Jacob had told him. The only other thing he could do would be to have...

Waffle laughed out loud; that would be too extreme, he thought to himself mirthfully. That would be extreme, indeed... he would just have to wait and see how this thing developed, and play it by ear. Waffle stumbled out the door, still laughing loudly as he headed towards his bedroom.

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Stephen Schidtberger set his drink down on the table besides his bed, and settled back on his pillows. He was feeling good; a young friend of his had just revealed to him, unintentionally, that he was going to solve one of Schidtberger's most frustrating problems for him... unintentionally.

Jacob Rosenberg was young, and still very ignorant. One day he would learn the ropes about being a Usher, and how to handle the power; he had a bright and promising future ahead of him, now that he was inheriting his dying father's estate. Yes, Jacob would be a fine, cunning Usher one day; but he wasn't one yet. He hadn't fooled Schidtberger one bit when he asked for the phone number of Mike Douglas, the mobster hitman, saying he was going to try to make some time with Mike's girlfriend, whom he had met and fallen in love with at the party they were attending.

Schidtberger had immediately suspected foul play. He knew that Jacob had already tried to set up the notorious Carlos Fontana, the common enemy whom they both despised, for a simple beating by a hired goon; that attempt had failed miserably. He had suspected, and hoped, that Jacob would try again, and would be enraged enough to go even further than a simple beating next time... and Jacob seemed to be confirming his suspicions and hopes. After only a few simple questions, Schidtberger had figured out that Jacob had no interest in the girl at all, and was just using her as an excuse to get in touch with the professional murderer.

Jacob's story about meeting Douglas's girlfriend and wanting to steal her away from him was pure bullshit; the beautiful girl had been Douglas's niece, whom he had brought to the party with him; Douglas himself was a strict homosexual, and never even bothered with women on a sexual basis. If Jacob had really talked with his niece long enough to "fall in love" with her, he would surely have found out that she was Douglas's niece, not his girlfriend, when he had first hit on her. The story was obviously a ruse to steer Schidtberger's suspicious mind away from Jacob's real intention: to get a real professional killer to terminate Fontana.

Which was exactly what Schidtberger wanted to do... but he had been stymied as to how to pull the murder off without drawing attention to himself. Now he had found a way to do it, with no possibility of his being implicated; he would simply let Jacob do it for him. It was perfect.

Schidtberger suddenly felt a strong urge to call David Geeken, his partner in crime, and tell him that their problem was going to be solved by Jacob Rosenberg... but something stopped him. Geeken was kind of an idiot; he might drunkenly give the secret away, at one of the celebrity parties he threw so often on his yacht or his mansions. He was going to have to think about this thing some more, before he did anything or told anyone about it.

He rolled over in bed. He was alone again; having finished boring his live-in prostitute with his pathetic attempts to achieve an erection, he had given up and sent her away to her quarters. His wife was in her separate bedroom... she was suffering yet another migraine again tonight.

Schidtberger closed his eyes again, and gratefully felt sleep coming over him. He pulled the covers up and began to doze off. "Useless bitch..." he murmured to himself. Then he fell asleep, fantasizing about winning a dozen of the highest academy awards a filmmaker could possibly purchase, a Harvey... for one of his children's cartoons!

Stephen Schidtberger was one very strange, but justifiably self-satisfied man, indeed.

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Copyright 2006, 2021 by Charles Adrian Trevino.