Delusion

By Gary D Aker

He thought he was going to get ten thousand for three days work. But, you don’t get ten grand for delivering groceries. Instead, the out-of-work actor got the adventure of a lifetime, chasing his exotic dancer girlfriend and a legendary con man through the casinos of Las Vegas in pursuit of the delusion. This novel is the first of a two-part series with its sequel, “North of Likely." Crimerotic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary D Aker
• Release date: Jan 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301770182

Gary D Aker

Gary Aker lives in Portland, Or, where he pursues dance and photography, as well as his usual and unusual writing duties. He has published two novels, "Delusion" and "North Of Likely," which comprise a two-part series.His great uncle, on his mother's side--by marriage, not by blood--is in baseball's Hall of Fame. His mother was an ER nurse and community theater actress. His father was a nuclear submarine design engineer. Born in Chicago, reared in Pittsburgh, he is proud to have dropped out of both Penn State and the University of Colorado in Boulder.He has published poetry in myriad literary reviews, most recently in, "Eternal Haunted Summer," spring and summer issues. He has published short erotic stories and an excerpt of his first novel, "Delusion," in, "Gallery Magazine."Three of the characters in, "Delusion," are prominent in his second novel, "North of Likely." It is not a traditional sequel, as the hero of the first, "Delusion," is not present in, "North of Likely," but is only mentioned off page. The hero of, "North of Likely," is a supporting character in, "Delusion." Paul Steiner and Alicia Mannion are prominent in both novels. One could say the two part series tells the 165,000 word story of Secret Service agent, Bob Taggart, who evolves into the criminal, John Taylor, before realizing his fateful end, following the parameters of the Hero's Journey."North of Likely" was developed through a writer's workshop, as well as his first crime novel, "Delusion."He is currently working on a semi- autobiographical work of fiction, in the spirit of Jerzy Kosinski's, "Steps," whereby the chapters are virtually stand alone, and are not presented in chronological order, but form a mosaic whole.He is also crafting his third crime novel, "The Black Pearl Necklace," starring, James Whitecarol--the junky, dumpster-diving, defective detective who lives in his office in San Francisco's Tenderloin. An excerpt from the novel-in-process appeared in, "The Alberta Street Review," Volume Two. The novel features a very unusual character who shares narration: a priceless, 18th century necklace strung from uncultured black pearls and round, gem-cut diamonds. The mysterious, one-of-a-kind, inanimate object lends the sardonic, transcendent, omnicient view of things, in succinct spacer chapters, strung into the novel like the diamonds in between the raw black pearls.Mr. Aker has been: a juice bar/luncheonette owner, fine dining and private club waiter, onstage musician/vocalist, onstage dancer, actor's theater house and facility manager, adult magazine editor, blackjack dealer, cab driver, cook and countless other incarnations.Mr. Aker has penned the following types of work for real cash money: advertising, both display and radio ads, public relations and brochures for profit and non-profit companies, numerology charts, actor and band bios, poetry, short stories, hundreds of articles on the following subject matter--band and music event reviews/previews, movie reviews, theater reviews, restaurant reviews, interviews, columnist social satire, political satire, absurdist humor, and investigative to name some over the years. When he writes a novel, he brings all of the above, living and writing experience, to his work, plus his childhood writing dreams hatched by his mother who was an avid fan of the crime novel and mystery/suspense.One of his best friends, and bigger heart throbs from the 90s, was B-movie actress, Gabriella Hall, AKA, Laura Saldivar. She is his mind's eye model for the female protagonist of the same first name in, "The Black Pearl Necklace."You may contact Mr. Aker: [e-mail]

Book preview

1

Should Have Been Easy (buy-in)

We slid into a pleated black vinyl booth. Low lit, low slung sixties decor fit the mood of what Paul was about to drop in my lap. Paul was buying, so I ordered a thick burger and a wad of greasy onion rings. I liked retro lounges and their renaissance of good old American cuisine. As a recently retired waiter, that’s about all I had on my mind—good food, good service, and good company.

Black coffee rested on the black Formica table top because we were both in A.A.—in fact, we had just come from a late night meeting. That’s where I met him. Paul’s visit to A.A. was court ordered, or part of his parole. Wouldn’t know that by the way he had just shared in the meeting. Dripping with rehearsed sincerity, he told us all how lucky he was to have been sent our way. Because his gambling problem, as he found out by coming to those meetings, was just the sorry half of it—or so his story went. And I believed it, of course.

I was about to take my second, growling-stomach bite, but before I could swallow, he sprang it on me.

You wanna make ten large for three days work? is what he said—not like a question but like an invitation to a dance.

Sure, is all I said, all I needed to say.

And he was off and running. You get on a plane. You fly to Miami. They meet you, decide if you’re okay—but if I say you’re okay that pretty much decides it right there.

I remember at this point the waitress sauntered by—cute blonde, she had this melancholy air about her that I liked. Paul flirted with her shamelessly, flashed his blue eyes and green money like honey for the bee. I could tell she saw right through him. Didn’t want Sugar Daddy. But still, he fathers a presence in any room—gray-white hair like the glint off a knife, and whiter beard, close-cropped. White shirt, stiff collar open because he’s a waiter—just came from work at an exclusive I-talian restaurant, the kind of place I never worked in. But there he is, first job ever as a waiter, just a few months out of prison, forty-five years old, and he’s working at Ricardo’s—tiled floor, brick oven, classic sculptures gazing down on plates of milk-fed veal—where they look at you cross-eyed if you don’t have a reservation . . . and the place is empty!

Anyhow, the waitress tore herself away from his spell and he continued. You pick up a car, drive up to Atlanta. Pick up a clean car. Drive to Knoxville. Make a phone call. Collect ten thousand and a plane ticket home. Never see them or talk to them again . . . unless you want to.

A blind man could see this was organized crime. You don’t get ten grand for delivering groceries. But Paul knew he had just baited a hungry coyote in the dead of winter, so the rest was easy. Here little puppy. Daddy’s got a nice juicy steak for you. And that’s how he lured me into taking a low-rent, fall-guy job. A book could be written about what happens when a guy like Paul finds a guy like me. But the person who got conned would have to write it, and no one wants to admit how utterly stupid and gullible they were, and how good, and special, and lucky they felt while they were being conned. So I’ll finish how he put the hook into me.

He said, The shit is packed into the car, like in the frame or something. You never see it. I never saw it, never even asked what it was, leaning back, gesturing with his right hand holding his Marlboro Light. Big diamond ring, the size of a Christmas tree, planted on his thick hand, screamed how confident he was that he had this fish on the line.

Bottom fishing in a late-night, wacko A.A. meeting for a natural-born sucker, that’s what he was doing. He started pressing folded money into my hand after his first meeting because I was sharing such a sad story. And the sorrier it got—lost my home to a fire, lost my job, car’s broken down, life’s broken down, and I’m having a run of bad luck like a craps table gone so cold it’s like an ice rink—the more money he shoved into my palm with his big, fleshy ham hands that insisted I take it. At first it was fives which quickly changed into tens. And after I’d known him for only a month, he was dropping twenties on me. I was using my mouth like a cheap, Sandy Boulevard whore, and didn’t even realize it. But he did.

I should have known. You don’t get paid for sharing in a lousy A.A. meeting, unless the Mob needs a fall guy, and Paul’s there to recruit one. Plus, he has the added incentive of wanting me out of the way so he can have his fun with my girlfriend. Should have seen that one coming on since the first time I introduced them.

Alicia. My first, last, and only phone call from Fulton County Jail was to her . . .

I looked around at the room—sickly yellow cinder blocks, long, battleship-gray metal table, two metal chairs with green cushions. The guard actually asked Brian Hunter, my court appointed attorney, if he wanted me cuffed to the table . . . like I’m an animal. I’ve only been in here two days! I looked for his gaze across the table, but his eyes avoided mine, just like he did yesterday, first time we met—our little getting-to-know-you session. I didn’t like that about him. He wasn’t a bad guy—middle-aged, collegiate-looking tweed jacket, salt-and-pepper goatee, stiff Brillo hair that would never go bald but would never look stylish either. He liked to talk a lot about himself. I noticed that right off. He said he was a Harley rider. That was his wild side, I guess.

When I met him yesterday—seems like a week ago in here—his handshake was like warm soft bread I tried to grab a hold of before he pulled it away. I’m-not-really-on-your-side handshake. I’m-not-your-friend handshake. And now that hand was busy with a pencil, impatiently dancing across a legal pad.

What? is all I said.

I can see you’re starting to hesitate, he explained. You’re have to give me everything. I know it might be difficult to talk about her, but I need you to remember—anything can help—to try and figure out a way to get you out of here.

I can’t believe I haven’t even been arraigned yet, I said to his pencil.

I know. That’s the feds for you. I can’t believe it either, he said, parroting me. My guess is they caught you, the little fish, and now they’re trying to figure out a way to throw you back in to catch the big fish . . . which is why I need to know the whole story, to see what kind of leverage you’ve got to deal.

I’m just an out-of-work actor, I said, stretching in my chair, flinging my arms out to either side, feigning a yawn, and grasping at air. A college graduate who’s never seen the inside of a jail cell before. Do you think this is easy for me! My voice getting away from me, I grabbed the firm, square edge of the table for something to hang onto.

No, Brad. I don’t think this is easy for you, with rehearsed, lawyerly sincerity.

I wanted to stick his pencil in his neck.

DEA charges for felony distribution, I can’t believe it, I said, calming down, stalling him some more because I could.

Brad, there’s no charges yet, not till you’ve been arraigned.

When the hell is that gonna be! I screamed.

Prob-prob-probably tomorrow, he stuttered, leaning back in his chair. They can’t go past seventy-two hours without an arraignment hearing, regaining his control.

Those fuckers can do whatever the hell they want. I just wanna know what I’m up against, what I’m actually facing here.

That’s why you need to help me out, Brad, he said in a fatherly tone.

"Me and my lawyer, strolling down the cell block C, I sang. Never much good at musicals. Wasn’t much of a comedic actor either. High drama or nothing for me. I can’t believe they don’t even allow you to smoke in here," stalling him some more. Anything to drag it out. Time out of my cell was time out of mind.

Well, if it’s any consolation to you, Brad, if you get transferred to the Federal Penitentiary, you can smoke there.

Yeah, that’s some consolation. And if I get transferred to the Federal Pen, does that mean I get a better attorney?

I’ve handled criminal law before, Brad. You’re lucky you didn’t get some kid who just passed the Bar. He leaned forward and almost looked at me for a second. I’m all you’ve got right now. And you could do a lot worse.

Satisfied that I could get under his skin, I leaned back in my chair, lifted the front legs up off the concrete floor, then let myself fall forward, elbows hitting the table. Squared up. Back arched. I was ready to go on.

Alicia could be summed up in the conversation I had with her when I landed in jail. Unbelievable. I called her up.

She answered,Hello.

It’s me, Brad, I’m in jail.

I was wondering where you were, cold as shrimp cocktail. Then came the ball-crushing clincher. I’m really sort of busy right now, can you call me back?

Can I call you back?! I said I’m in fucking jail and you want me to call you back!

It’s just that this isn’t a really good time, she said.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean . . . You got someone there with you? I was ready to rip the phone out of the wall, or crawl right through it and fuck her creamy voice into oblivion.

Yes.

What?!

Yes, someone’s here.

Who?!

Someone you know.

Are we playing twenty questions now or what?

He was worried about you, too.

"So, you were worried about me?

Of course I was, am.

Well, you could have fooled me.

That’s because someone’s here and I feel . . . strange.

Right, someone I know, someone who was worried too. And then it hit me. Is it Paul?

She admitted it, voice quivering.

I felt this noose around my throat strangling the anger. Because I knew that mushy sound in her voice came from lust, desire, just fucked sideways so she can barely talk, not from any kind of guilt, shame, or sorry. And that got me like a punch in the stomach, weak knees, face dizzy hot. But I was getting an involuntary . . . swelling. Shit, I was getting a god damn hard-on. And this sick, sad, lonely part of me wanted to fuck her used, shaved, perfect white pearl of a pussy right there. Wanted to fuck her with an iron-bar vengeance. But I just buried that part of me, along with any hope whatsoever, when I hung up the phone.

So now all I’ve got left in my ripped-off soul is the desire to get revenge on Paul. But he’s obviously more clever. Probably tougher and meaner too. He’s a legitimate criminal. I’m just a pretend criminal—an idiot who took a blind leap at a lousy ten Gs supposed to be easy money. No such thing.

My grandfather used to say, You gotta remember who’s paying you and where their money comes from. And if it sounds too good to be true, then it probably is.

Paul reminded me a bit of my grandfather. Gramps drove a big Cadillac and wore a huge diamond ring just like Paul. Gramps also liked to gamble, play cards, and go to the track. He was a member of the original Playboy Club in Chicago, and was a larger-than-life character, full of stories, who could charm a rattlesnake, same as Paul. When I was a kid, I pretended to myself that Gramps knew some shady characters in Chicago. He was a realtor and a builder, drove a Caddy back when that meant something, flashing his memberships to exclusive clubs. He even tried to get me into a burlesque show when I was ten. He used to go to this old-world barbershop on State Street near the L. It was just the kind of place where a kid could imagine mob characters dropping by to talk shop while they got their ears lowered. And maybe something was going on in the back room. The barber spoke badly broken English with a German accent and couldn’t cut hair worth shit. Gramps had a perpetual cowlick like the plume off a strutting rooster. And the one time I had my hair cut there, the barber gave me one, too.

So, even though Paul was only about ten years older than me, his worldly experience dwarfed mine. I felt like a child who’s befriended the giant as he told me his huge stories about betting the long shot on the horse that’s been juiced, or betting inside information in sports, like when the starting pitcher was seen shitfaced closing down the bar on the night before a day game. And I was eating it up right out of his hand. The wide-eyed, cowlicked boy who just wanted to believe that was me back in the booth.

So I threw Paul the question that said I was hooked. Did you ever go on this job?

He stubbed his cigarette out, gestured for the waitress to bring us more coffee, stalling me, trying to decide the right thing to say. He didn’t really have it completely mapped out. He was so good, he knew he could leave the script, go out on the tightrope and dazzle me with his footwork. Only after the waitress had come by and refilled our cups, and he’d flirted with her to the point I was embarrassed, did he finally look at me and say, Yeah, I’ve done it about twenty times.

He was probably laughing so hard inside he was ready to wet his pants.

Suddenly, he just got up and said, Excuse me. I’ve got to use the bathroom, get rid of some coffee, like he had to compose himself.

But all I was thinking was how impressed Alicia would be when I came back with ten thousand dollars—lingerie, fancy dinners, trip to Las Vegas. Putting a hundred on the line at the craps table, then taking the free odds for another hundred. Playing blackjack for a hundred dollars a hand, then doubling down, or splitting, and having two hundred riding on one hand. I had gambling and pussy fever so bad I couldn’t see straight, picturing how Alicia keeps hers perfectly smooth because she works as a dancer at a club called the Magic.

I’d go in there sometimes after work, waiting tables at this Ma-and-Pa, family-style restaurant. And the Magic was like trading day for night, as completely different from my crummy restaurant job as I could possibly get. I liked the idea of taking the tips from the all-American family diners and giving them to the dancers at the Magic. Like, if only Mr. and Mrs. Joe Blow could see me now, slapping down their lousy eight-percent tip so the dancer will come show me some more. And there was Alicia, shoving her perfection in guys’ faces for dollar bills stained with hamburger grease and snot and sweat. I know she shaves it because it makes some men crazy. Makes me crazy. My white come splashing over her marble white stomach. So I ask you, big man with your big, black Cadillac, which is whiter?—because you’re fucking her now. Probably has a big fat dick because his thumbs are the size of rutabagas. I had a friend once who worked in porno films to pay her way through college, and she said, How do ya tell? It’s in the thumbs.

So Paul finally comes back from the men’s room, sits down, smooths his tired beard. He acts like he’s forgotten all about my question—how many times has he done this delivery job?—and his answer, twenty god damn times. And I don’t think there’s anything weird about the way his answers are coming out short and sweet . . . because he wants me to do the talking now, steer the conversation, show my fears.

I asked him the next dumb question. So have you done it sobered up, on the wagon?

Yeah, once.

How did it feel afterwards?

Dirty, he said without hesitation, giving me the first real clue as to what I was getting my gullible ass into. But the money felt good. Still, that feeling doesn’t go away. I carry it around inside . . . I’d do it myself but I’m a twice-convicted felon. If I got popped again, I would go away for a long time, not eleven months at the Sheridan Country Club like the last time. And I got my daughter, you know . . .

Anyone ever been caught? Now I’m talking. First smart thing I’ve said since he threw me this dime-a-dance romance. I offer you the romance then you do the dime of hard time in the Federal Pen.

Yeah, maybe once or twice. But you gotta realize they’ve been doing this for over twenty years, done it hundreds of times. Have everybody lined up and palms greased along the way. I guess maybe once or twice, somebody didn’t get theirs greased, so they got a hard-on and popped the mule. But they’ve got the lawyers, judges, and DAs all eating out of their hands. There’s no way you’ll do time in the unlikely event it turns out to be your unlucky day, and some lawman decides to play hero.

Now, if I’d been paying any attention whatsoever to something besides by belly getting full, and the way the waitress’s ass moved under her tight black pants, I would have seen it. Greased palms, and hundreds of times over twenty years spells organized crime in big, black-as-his-fucking-Cadillac letters. He’s practically begging me to turn around and walk away, coyote, from the rancid piece of meat he’s dangling in front of my face. Like a good con, he’s telling me what a funky deal this is, giving me a way out like a big door with a bright red EXIT lit up over top. He could have come right out and said, Of course, there’s a chance they might just put one behind your ear when it’s over, and I would still be jaws clenched, eyes burning, hanging onto that rancid piece of meat for dear life.

I was wondering if we could get back to you telling me a little more about Alicia, Brian pried.

But I wasn’t back in that booth with a do-over card in my hand.

Why? I snapped.

I know that’s difficult, he pried some more, you being in here and thinking about her with Paul—

You have no idea, I cut him off.

It’s just that in order for me to fit the pieces together, I need to have some idea of what her possible role in this whole thing is.

Her role? I laughed sarcastically. Her role is to ruin my fucking life, counselor.

And I still need to know, Brad.

Isn’t our hour up for today?

As a matter of fact, Brad, there’s actually no time limit to our visits. We met for an hour yesterday because that was the time I had available to fit into my schedule.

Well, my schedule today does not include talking any more about Alicia.

Just a little, and then I promise we’re done for today and you won’t have to see me again until tomorrow.

All right. If it will make you happy . . . Alicia, she’s five foot seven, about a hundred and twenty-four pounds, skin like expensive bone-white china, green eyes, hair dyed black—kinda cut pageboy style. Sort of Goth girl meets Betty Page look. I had been seeing her for about five months prior to when this particular little drama began. Met her shortly after my apartment caught on fire, like Fate was tempting me, saying, ‘Here, this should ease the loss a bit.’

Is she younger than you?

I’d say Fate has been around a lot longer than me. But Alicia, well, she’s only twenty-seven. But she has this voice that seems much older, like, if Fate had a voice, it would be hers—deep, raspy and rich, like a white Billie Holliday. And she’s a singer, too. Saving up her money dancing so she can take another crack at L.A. She’s just one of those girls who’s from all over, if you know what I mean. But originally, she’s from Oregon.

Is that where you’re from, Brad, Portland?

Oh, so we’re off the Alicia topic now, are we? I quipped.

Let’s just try and have a conversation, Brad. I promise, we’ll tie it up here shortly.

No. I’m from Idaho. I moved to Portland to go to college and, well, I just got stuck there . . . So, are we done with Alicia now?

I think I’ve got the picture.

Yeah. And what’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing, Brad.

Well, then I think I’m going to go back to my cell, try and get some sleep. I have a big day tomorrow, you know.

I didn’t want to say this earlier, but, as I look this situation over, it’s possible the feds are working on some kind of deal for you. Would you turn any of them over?

Turn ’em over. I don’t even know their names except Paul. Paul Steiner. Guy I met in Miami is just Number Two, and Number One’s in Chicago, or so I was told. Don’t have much to offer, but, hell yes, I’d turn them over, beginning with Paul.

They all Jewish?

Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t ask if they went to Synagogue.

I’ve heard a little about the Jewish Mob down in South Florida. They run a lot of Social Security and Medicare scams, launder money—

And apparently they distribute contraband.

But I don’t think they bring it in. They just have the network to move it: Atlanta, New York, Chicago.

Jesus. What the hell did I get myself into. I’m just an actor, an unemployed waiter.

And that could be your ticket out of here.

Meaning?

Well, it could be you’re gonna have to act your way out of this. feds offer a deal, act like you know more than you do.

Just then, the guard came into the room. We’re gonna have lock down and lights out on C in five minutes, so, I’m gonna have to take him back to his cell.

I’ll b-be by in the morning to-tomorrow, Brad.

Can’t wait.

You should be getting arraigned by tomorrow afternoon. We’ll start in on South Beach, so, have it fresh.

Fresh as a daisy.

Take care in here, he said, closing his briefcase, acting for a second like he cared.

I’ve already learned how to sleep with my back to the wall. But that doesn’t mean I want to get used to this.

I don’t think you’ll have to, he said, like he knew something.

Back in my cell, I immediately noticed that the guy who was wound tighter than a Terrier was gone. Must have been shuffled back to the State Pen’ after giving his testimony in another trial today. He wasn’t a bad guy. Well, everyone that’s in here is supposed to be a bad guy. Still, grateful for these three walls to myself—Alicia, Paul and me, how did we come together, and how could it wind up like this? That night I slept in the air.

2

Burger Castle Deal (deal)

February eighth, that’s the day I stepped out the terminal doors of Miami International and felt the foul tropical air lick my face like a slobbering dog. But I was orgasmic to be out of Portland, and the cramped little school bus I’d been living in, sitting