“And people are actually taking this seriously?” Jake asked.
“Not everyone,” she said, “but a lot are. Remember the rule we humans like to live by: if it’s written down, in must be true.”
“But this is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard,” Jake said. “The alleged tranny tells his entire story to a ramper but not to the cops when they show up? And Laura and I hang around long enough for the cops to show up in the first place while we’re keeping a foreign citizen captive? And then we pose and smile for the camera with our alleged underage tranny sex slave standing between us while we’re waiting for our lawyers to spring us?”
“Or,” Pauline added, “that the cops would actually listen to your lawyer if they thought you were really keeping a seventeen-year-old Venezuelan captive? Yeah, anyone who believes in this crap is a moron, but there are a lot of morons in the world.”
“That is true,” Jake agreed. “What did you tell the reporters who called?”
“Just what I knew at the time. Number one, you are most definitely not keeping anyone captive, for housekeeping or sex slave or any other purpose. Two, you already have a housekeeper who has been in your employ ten years now and she is well-compensated for her position, not from Venezuela, not a teenager, and is there quite voluntarily. Three, please make note that there is no name on the email, it comes from an anonymous address, none of the people mentioned in the email have last names except you and Laura, and it would not be the Idaho State Police who would have investigated such a thing, but the Sandpoint Police Department and/or the Bonner County Sheriff’s department.”
“Very good points,” Jake said. “What did they have to say?”
“They said they will be looking into the details of the accusation and will call back for further clarification. They all asked for a quote from you.”
“I should give them one, right?” Jake asked.
“Yes, most definitely,” Pauline said. “I plan to thoroughly debunk this story by using as many facts as I can dig up. I’ve already called the FBO services at Sandpoint Airport and they have assured me they have no employee by the name of Jose, now or ever. I have called the Idaho State Police, the Sandpoint PD, and the Bonner County Sheriff’s department and they have all verified that they have not taken a report of any kind that involves you or Laura or a possibly abducted Venezuelan citizen. These are all verified facts. Now that you have told me the source of the photograph, I will call the Pocatello Airport’s FBO and try to get in contact with the man in the photo. It would be helpful if you could remember his name.”
Jake searched his memory banks but just could not come up with the ramper’s name. Though he remembered every other detail about the guy, that critical piece of information eluded him. This was undoubtedly due to the way his brain was wired regarding casual acquaintances like rampers, autograph seekers, wait staff, and groupies. There was simply no need to move such people’s names into long term memory. “I’m sorry,” he told his sister. “I just can’t remember it. Maybe Laura can.”
“That’s a thought,” Pauline said. “She stayed home today?”
“She was still asleep when Elsa and I left,” Jake confirmed. “She’s probably up now. I’ll give her a call. She needs to know that this shit is going down anyway.”
“Do you want me to forward a copy of the email to her?” Pauline asked.
“Yeah, good idea,” Jake said.
He turned the phone toward him and then dialed the main number for the Oceano house. Laura picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, babe,” he told her. “We got some shit going down that you need to know about.”
A sigh. “What now?” she asked.
He told her the tale. She expressed disbelief that anyone was dumb enough to actually believe such a ridiculous accusation but otherwise did not seem to be all that upset. She was more interested in how his conversation with Elsa had gone.
“She is thrilled for us,” Jake told her.
“That’s wonderful!” Laura said happily.
“It is, isn’t it?” he said. “Anyway, I was hoping you might remember the name of that ramper. Pauline needs to get hold of him and find out how his picture got into circulation.”
“You don’t think that he is the one that started this, do you?” she asked. “He seemed so ... you know ... nice.”
“We don’t know,” Jake said. “It doesn’t seem logical that he would make himself out to be a young tranny from Venezuela, but maybe he can shed some light on how the picture got out into the world. Paulie can probably find him without his name—after all, it’s not a very big FBO they have in Pocatello—but if you can remember...”
“I remember,” she said. “His name was Ron. The other ramper was named Dallas.”
As soon as she said the names, Jake remembered and knew she was correct. Apparently, they were stored somewhere deep inside but were just not easy to access. “That’s right,” he said. “Thanks, hon. Paulie is sending a copy of the email to your inbox so you can take a look at it.”
“It’s already there,” Pauline said from her keyboard.
“I’ll look at it right now,” she said.
“And I’ll keep you informed on developments as they warrant,” he promised.
“Right,” she said.
They said their I-love-you’s and broke the connection. Jake told Pauline the name of the ramper and his companion.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll start working on this right now.”
“Sounds good,” Jake said with a sigh. “And I suppose I should go get some actual work done.”
She nodded. “I’ll keep you updated,” she promised.
Jake walked to the studio and let himself inside. For the next two hours he immersed himself in the making and criticism of V-tach’s music. Thoughts of the ridiculous email were driven far to the back of his mind. After all, it was a perfectly ludicrous story that they were able to factually refute. He was sure that nothing would ultimately come of it.
As it turned out, he was only half right.
Darlene Sams, the manager of the Oceano Alpha Beta grocery store, did not particularly care for Jake Kingsley, his wife, or their uppity maid. The maid in particular—her name was Elsa, and she was hands-down the blackest woman Darlene had ever met—rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Their initial encounter with each other on the day the trio had moved into their Oceano home and Darlene had tried to refuse a check from Elsa (and who wouldn’t automatically mistrust a check from a black-ass nigger with a Los Angeles address, she often pondered) had only set the tone for her dislike. Since then, it had grown. Elsa was in the store several times a week buying three and four hundred dollars worth of groceries at a time (a good portion of it top-shelf liquor and wines—it was quite clear that the Kingsleys were alcoholics) just as Elsa had suggested she would. Darlene was always careful to be polite to Elsa, even syrupy sweet on occasion, but she secretly thought the woman arrogant and hoity-toity, which infuriated her because she sincerely believed that an actual African nigger who worked as a mere maid had absolutely no place feeling superior in any way to a hard-working white woman such as herself. The fact that Elsa was more educated than Darlene, made considerably more money, lived in nicer accommodations, drove a better car, and worked considerably harder and more numerous hours every week, did not even enter her equation unless she was looking for sources of validation of her opinion.
As for Kingsley and his wife, they were occasional visitors to the store as well, one or the other of them coming in once every few weeks or so when they were in town. Mrs. Kingsley came in regularly to pick up her birth control prescription from the pharmacy (and Darlene had heard some juicy gossip about that just the day before) and to occasionally do some light shopping. Jake Kingsley came in a bit more frequently, usually by himself, usually to buy the makings for a single meal. These visits were usually on the weekends. He had told several of the checkers while making small talk with them that Elsa the maid had weekends off and that he, Kingsley, did the cooking on those days if he was home.