Fast and Loose

Chapter 2, Part 2

Disappearing into the shadow cast by the grande dame Beverly Hills Courthouse, Monty hustled past the bulky security guard, who waved her through with a shake of his head as if to say, “You, again,” followed by the lady security guard’s expression, a rebuke which could only mean, “Girl, no.” Monty hunched down and headed to courtroom #9; Judge Rendel’s traffic court and the most popular show in town.

Finding Benny Bloom was easy from any angle. He had a head like a casaba melon, and the ballooned-out shoulders of an ex-high school wrestler. He was seated third row to the left, his glasses balanced atop his head as though he were directing an MOW, but it was just Judge Rendel blowing air out of his fleshy fish mouth as a skinny, slick-haired man stated his excuse for running a red on Whittier.

“I spilled a bottle of that green stuff, you know, right in my lap.

Messed up my suit, my new kicks-”

The judge raised one of his bristle brows, then put up a meaty hand that looked like it could stop a moving bus.

“Pay the fine.”

“But, Your Honor, I-“

“Or it’s doubled,” Judge Rendel bellowed. “Pay the fine, son, and stop drinking juice. It’s embarrassing.” He waved off the skinny scofflaw, like he was stinking up his courtroom. Judge Rendel reminded Monty of an old bulldog her grandmother once had, only skills were napping and barking.

“Next!” the Judge suddenly shouted, waking the packed courtroom. “The People vs. Monty Mills.”

“Here,” Monty said, then moved towards Benny, who turned and gave her a stern look, which had no traction and was replaced quickly by a wink.

“Approach the bench,” Judge Rendel said. Monty and Benny both approached. The judge gave Benny a withering look, then peered down at Monty, then the docket. “What have we here? 19 parking tickets?”

“Your Honor, I can explain,” Monty said.

“Can’t they all.”

“Allow me, Your Honor,” Benny said. “Judge, my client is contesting the charges.”

“On what basis?” the judge asked.

“Judge, if I may,” Monty said, “On the basis that I have one of the very last 68 Impalas in existence on the West Coast. Sorry, convertible 68 Impala.”

The bags under Judge Rendel’s eyes twitched. His three chins vibrated gently as he growled.

“What color did you say?”

“I didn’t, Your Honor,” Monty said. “Butternut Yellow.”

A low whistle came from the judge’s blubbery lips.

“I had an Impala. Asked my first wife to marry me in it. Skylight Blue,” the judge said, “they had names, then, didn’t they.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I miss her,” the Judge said, “not the wife. The car. Enough. What about these parking tickets?”

“Sir. I have to use up two parking spaces. But I never impinge on anyone else. I park far away, or in empty lots. I don’t go to shopping malls or park on busy streets,” Monty said.

“Closer,” he said, covering his microphone and gesturing for Monty to come forward, then turned on Benny, “Not you.”

Monty took another step towards the bench.

“Let me drive it,” the judge said.

“How far?” Monty asked.

“Around the block a few times,” the judge said.

“No food, no sharp objects in your back pockets,” Monty said. “Those are the rules, your honor.”

“Fair enough,” the judge said, “I’ll be in touch. Case dismissed.” He hit the block with his gavel.

“Well, that was easy,” Benny said, as he held the courtroom door open for Monty. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

Nate and Al’s. Monty could smell the grilled onions, lox, and eggs from outside the courthouse. The place was rife with out-of-work writers – the three-day-old beards and rumpled t-shirts, and the smell of bad divorces gave them away. Also, anyone with a respectable job had somewhere to go after 10:00.

Monty slid into a wine-colored booth, following Benny’s lead. Nate and Al’s put her at ease. The leather booths, old and cracking. The waitresses, old and cracking. The odor of fried eggs and smoked salmon, no matter what time you crawled in.

“I love you, you know that,” Benny said, as he knit his hands together and leaned across the table. Benny had a gift for invading personal space.

“Thanks, Benny,” Monty said, as a waitress poured coffee, without having to be asked. Things were looking up, Monty thought. Maybe this wouldn’t be Manslaughter Monday.

“I can’t work for you anymore,” Benny said.

Monty looked up from her coffee. “What?”

“My wife doesn’t want me to,” Benny said, then. “Shit. Why’d I say that? You always get everything out of me.” Benny’d married a 25-year-old, former cocktail waitress he met in Vegas who’d taken to the L.A. lifestyle like a fish to pressed juice.

“Can we at least eat before you dump me?” Monty asked.

They ordered. Chicken soup for Monty – that’s all she could stomach. Scrambled salmon for Benny – no toast.

“I’ve lost nine pounds going gluten-free,” he said, patting his stomach.

“That used to be a black thing, gluten allergies,” Monty said. “White people steal everything and make it a neurosis.”

“I think more clearly, too,” Benny smiled. The Benny Now wasn’t Benny Then. Benny Now had verifiable abs, capped teeth and manicured nails.

Benny Now was struggling with his frown face.

“Benny…” Monty narrowed her eyes. “You doing Botox?”

“Benjamin. Crystal likes ‘Benjamin’,” Benny said. “And yeah, Crystal says it makes me look 10 years younger. She’s pregnant, you should see her boobs.”

“Mazel tov,” Monty said. “You’ll be a great father.”

“Thank you. She worries about what could happen if I get in trouble. She’s applying to all the preschools, you know what that’s like, to get into one of those places?”

“God fucking no,” Monty wrinkled her nose at the thought of it. She wanted another cigarette. What was she up to, today…four?

“I may have to lie to get in,” Benny said, “I may have to say I’m not Jewish.”

Monty took a good, hard look at Benny over her Tom Ford’s.

“What would you be, then, Benny Bloom?”

“Episcopalian.”

“I can’t,” she said. “Benny. You can’t just cut me loose. We’ve been together since we were babies.”

“Right out of law school,” Bennie grabbed Monty’s hand and smiled. “You were my first client.”

Bar One, somewhere in the 90s. Benny was drunk on Mai Tais, celebrating passing the California bar, and Monty was sober, in handcuffs. The squeaky clean Beverly Hills PD claimed she extorted a Saudi prince (he’d knocked up one of her friends then refused to pay for the abortion, much less a baby.) The girl, unwittingly part of a harem – she was fresh off the Iowa-to-Hollywood bus route, had come to Monty for help. She had nowhere else to turn. “What’s the plan, Monty?” she’d asked. Monty could still see her freckles, her watery hazel eyes.

How many times had Monty been asked that question – “What’s the plan, Monty?”

Monty had an intimate conversation with Mr. 23rd-in-line to the monarchy. Which she recorded. Mr. Royal paid. Then had Monty arrested. She should have figured he had Beverly Hills PD in his pocket – how else would he have gotten away with the hideous statues with painted-on pubes adorning his enormous Roxbury spread?

“But…I’ve been offered a job working for Cyrus Doumain.”

Benny stared at her, as though gauging her reaction.

“I’m going back to bed,” Monty said, as she tried to scramble out of the booth.

“I’m sorry, Monty,” Benny grabbed her arm and she sat back down. “I’m going to be a family man. Time to go straight and narrow. You know, you can’t even break the law anymore without getting into trouble.”

Their food hit the table. Benny dug in right away. Monty just stared at him.

“Thank God I got married,” Benny said, his mouth full. “If I’m not having fun, it may’s well be with someone else.”

Monty raised her coffee cup. “Here’s to dying slowly, a little each day.”

He tapped her mug. “Stop playing everything fast and loose, Monty. Settle down, before it’s too late.”

“I’m a domestic terrorist,” Monty said. “I terrorize anything domestic.”

“You should have married Cyrus. In my humble opinion.”

“You should quit while you’re ahead with humble opinions.”

“Cyrus is the kind of guy you ask for a favor once – it’s done,” Benny said, “I know many people, little people, famous people, big machers he’s helped out. That’s quality.”

He took a sip of his orange juice. “Did you read about the Death Star?”

“No.” Monty needed another cigarette and retirement.

“Cyrus’s latest spec mansion. The biggest in L.A. – hell, the biggest in California – it’s 40,000 feet right now and they’re not even halfway done.”

“He’s lost his mind,” she said.

“He’s got a Dubai prince on the hook, fucker cost over 150 million. 5,000 pound chandeliers, antique marble fireplaces, movie theater for 200, sushi bar, electric toothbrushes, heated toilet seats…”

“Who needs a hot toilet seat in L.A.?” Monty asked, checking her watch.

“The 0.001% have bad circulation,” Benny said, “Hey, you keep the ring?”

“Of course not.”

“You and your fucking principles. They’ll get you killed one day,” he said, finishing off his orange juice. “So what do you think of the news?”

“About Tracey?” Monty read his face. He had no idea.

“Cyrus,” Benny said, “I figured you’d know. He’s engaged. The wedding’s next week.”

“Good for him,” Monty said, meeting his gaze.

“Yeah, so,” Benny said, “Listen, you still owe me a little money. No big deal. I know how you can square the books, easy.” He looked at her over his O.J.

“I got a question. How’s your down dog?”