“I don’t want anyone drive my car,” Kit said, nervously holding his ground. Self-corrected: “To drive my car.”
“Oh, you don’t?” said Burke, smugly. “Really?” Lolling the tongue in his mouth like a big ol’ bored lion. “Well how bout if those Century City attorneys drive it? Would you make an exception, Kitchener? For your precious G-wagen? I mean, you’re the head of the fleet —you can make an exception. You’re the man. I know I sure as shit would — cause they’re such good people! Oh, the attorneys (each time he said attorneys he had a gigglefit) really have your best interests at heart! The attorneys wake up each morning and say, ‘Now what the fuck can I do to help Kit Lightfoot today!’ So howze about you make a little exception, Kitchener, and let the fucking compassionate altruistical attorneys who love you so much drive your fucking car—”
“Burke, stop,” said Cela.
“You! Shut the fuck up!” Swiveled back to Kit. “In fact, the attorneys can fucking move right in! The attorneys can fucking change the sheets on your bed in the morning after you’ve soaked ‘em with your superstar piss, just like I do. Oh, they would love that so much. The wonderful attorneys can watch you stand in the kitchen and choke the chakra whenever Pam Anderson or Viv Wembley or whomever comes on TV—”
“I don’t do that!” shouted Kit.
“The fuck you don’t. You’re a horny fuck, just like your old man.” The sly smile again. “You liked porking Buddha-puss, didn’t you? Buddha-puss was a bleeder, huh. You like porking bleeders.”
“Burke, stop it! Leave him alone!”
He brutally backhanded her. She flew onto the couch. Kit grabbed at his father.
“Don’t — you — touch — her!”
Burke pranced and sang, “Macho macho man! I wanna be a ma-cho man!” Shoved his son, bam blam bam: “Don’t you think I’m tired of your shit? Now I got to hear you telling me not to drive your faggoty G-wagen? Fuck you! Where’d you think you’d be without me, Dr. Demento? Think all those people with your best interests at heart would be taking care of you?” He pretended to pound hard on a door. “ ‘Hey! Open up! Let us in, we want to take care of Kit! For nothing! We’re the compassionate attorneys, open up!’ They don’t give a flying shit about you, got it? OK? If anyone really gave a shit — except for yours truly — you’d be living with your fuckin agent. Or your fuckin fiancée, who as we all know loves you so fucking—”
“You sonofabitch!” shouted Cela.
“—so fucking much she can’t tear her ass away from you! Loves you so fucking much she hasn’t been to visit, not-a-wunst. Loves you so much she’s gobblin your homey’s dick like it was Jimmy Dean pure pork saus—”
Cela climbed onto his back as Burke pinned his son to the unvacuumed shag. Held him there while turning to Cela with full force. “That’s right, go where the money is, babe, you’re good at that. That’s where Cela goes — whoever’s got the fuckin money. Open wide for Chunky! Stuff that money in the junkie cunt—” (Back in his son’s face while the weeping Cela ineffectively clawed.) “Well, let me tell you something. I’m your father. And I should be fucking compensated. What are you gonna do with fifty million dollars, buy yourself a new brain? ‘When a man’s an empty kettle, he should be on his mettle in company or’—I’m the one doing the heavy lifting! Me, OK? Not your mama, may she rest in peace — not your precious beloved attorneys —not anyone! Capiche?”
Kit wrestled free and ran to the yard.
Burke chased him out.
Cela raced after, shrieking.
Burke tackled him. Pinned him. Kit squirmed, struggling to breathe.
“We’re in this together, or I’ll put you out on the street! I potty-trained you when you were a baby! When you were at Valle Verde, I fuckin potty-trained you again — that’s the kind of commitment I made! Because that’s the kind of father I am!”
Kit frothed and spat. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
“Oh yeah?” Burke creepily reprised:
Oh I could tell you why
the ocean’s near the shore
I could tink-uh tings
I never tunk before
Then drubbed and walloped, breaking two ribs and Cela’s jaw too before Tula rushed to put him down.
• • •
THAT WAS THEN. This is now.
Trials and Tribulations
RUSTY’S TRIAL HAD begun on Court TV, engendering a fresh wave of press about the bottom-feeding world of look-alikes. Someone was full-on blabbing to the Post about Becca’s relationship with Herke Lamar Goodson and her deposed gig as Viv Wembley’s chore whore. She suspected it was Gingher, though it may have been Larry Levine, because the two of them, Becca and Larry, had stopped talking after he got drunk at a party and made some insinuations that she didn’t care for about the nature of her even then defunct relationship with the Dunsmores. Annie said Larry was really hurt when he found out that Becca thought it was him. Annie was certain it was Gingher.
The idea of being forced to testify terrified her. She’d already told the detectives everything she knew, none of which seemed particularly special. Months ago, a Dunsmore attorney had assured her of the unlikelihood of a subpoena, but now Becca felt more vulnerable than ever. Her career was just taking off, and she was convinced that kind of exposure would finish her. She had trouble sleeping. The only thing that calmed her was when Dixie brushed her hair, which she did at all hours, at least when she was in town. Her mom was a rock.
How strange it was watching Rusty on television! He wore a tie and was clean-shaven, more Insider than Gladiator. She glued herself to the set and sometimes (especially after smoking weed) actually strained to make eye contact. It was totally surreal. Whenever the trial recessed or got bogged down in sidebars, they played Rusty’s “reel,” an anthology of forgettable ads that Elaine Jordache had procured, mostly from foreign countries — and, of course, the surviving microscene from Spike Jonze’s Look-Alike, courtesy of 20th Century-Fox. (The network was unsuccessful in getting hold of any outtakes.) The commentary provided by resident Court TV glamgirl wonks was filled with repetitious effulgence of the case “having all the elements of a Hollywood thriller,” the Greekly tragic (or Shakespearean, depending on the pundit) kicker being that the patricide’s victim, Rader Lee Goodson, was a reformed grifter and short con who had risen to be a kingpin in the world of identity theft. Identity theft: the “look-alike” son inheriting the sins of the father, then knifing him up in a fit of Oedipal rage! It was almost too “written,” too good to be true.